Foundations
by Arcadia Sterling
Summary: It started, not just with four Gryffindor boys, but with a class of one hundred who would, in time, come to define a generation and change the course of a future thought to be set in stone. Marauder era AU. First year.
1. A Wolf in the Fold

This Marauder's Era AU is what I lovingly refer to as the "Fuck Canon AU". Shameless and unapologeticly AU. For the purposes of this fic, canon is more of a suggestion that I will probably ignore in favor of a good story. JKR has been tweeting some real weird shit lately.

This AU is an attempt to teach the Marauder era some new tricks. The obvious cliches and the egregious offenders will be avoided to the best of my ability. Marlene McKinnon, Emmeline Vance, and the Longbottoms will not be a part of the Marauder's cohort because I don't have to put them there. There is race-bending. There is a small army of OCs. Some people will have siblings they didn't previously have. Some people will have children they didn't previously have. Some of the OCs will be friends with the Marauders. Some of the OCs will have ongoing storylines of their own. There _will_ be OCs and some of them _will_ be major players.

The timeline also got mucked with. I expanded it by two years so the Marauder cohort was born en masse in 1958; thus they start Hogwarts in 1969. (hold onto ur butts this is a slow burn)

Please leave canon at the door and enjoy your stay.

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Chapter One: A Wolf in the Fold

The rural countryside of Great Britian was lined with what the proper-minded residents insisted were roads, but in reality couldn't have been more the opposite. A road was expected to be paved, for one. Concrete was preferable, but tarmac would do in a pinch. Maybe it didn't need to have fancy white and yellow lines, and separate lanes designated for the buses, the bicycles, and the lorries, but there were things expected out of a proper road and these back-country lanes didn't have any of that.

One of these so-called "roads" wound a narrow path through the Peaks District. For as much as the local residents insisted upon the nomenclature, it only had aspirations to be a road. It was a lane, covered in gravel; the kind that could send a car flying into the fields if it took a corner too fast.

The lane was wide enough for a car in the sense that the car could fit both wheels. But if the car went just three inches too far to the left or right, then it was in the ditch. It twisted around the trees and dipped between the hills, too often slick with precipitation and wreathed in enough fog to make passage treacherous. There wasn't much room for one car to pull over to the side and let a second car pass. If two cars met in the middle, someone would have to backtrack a fair ways until there wasn't a ditch to get stuck in.

However, the lane rarely saw traffic more complicated than a flock of sheep.

A quarter of a mile from the only village along the route was a small cairn of stones. It was about two feet high and constructed entirely from white stones, stacked so neatly and precisely it didn't seem possible that hands had done it. The stones fit together so tightly that it was impossible to slip a blade of grass between them and they were the same uniform size, like they had been machine-shaped.

The villagers rarely thought anything of the little cairn. It was precisely a quarter of a mile from the census-designated boundary of the village, so they had long ago assumed that it was just a mile marker. Or perhaps it was there to remind drivers where the edge of the road was. Truly, if they had ever had the presence of mind to pay the stones a little more attention, they might have noticed one curious thing.

The cairn never changed color.

No matter the weather, no matter how much dust the passing lorries kicked up, no matter how dark-stained the gravel road became, the stones were always white. A gleaming, shining white like freshly fallen snow.

But the villagers never noticed because it was such a little thing. A quibbly bit of nothing that didn't stand out enough to merit a second glance and barely merited a first glance.

At exactly one-fourteen in the afternoon on a somewhat dreary day towards the end of July, the stone cairn did something that would have been considered quite unusual if anyone had been around to see it happen.

It started to glow.

Specifically, it started to glow a funny kind of purple color that had strange green undertones, yet didn't seem to be a color at all. Or every color at once. Any normal person who witnessed this phenomenon would have perceived this particular shade of everything-or-nothing purple only from the corner of their eye. If they had tried to stop and take a second look, they would have been overcome by the inexplicable urge to hurry on their way.

It took just a few seconds for the cairn to assume a steady glow. Then with a puff and a swirl of white smoke, a man arrived beside the cairn. He was a very odd looking man and presumably a very old one at that. His hair and his beard were almost entirely silver and long enough that he could have tucked them into his belt if he felt so inclined. He wore a demurely-cut suit of machine-rendered cotton and a silk tie. The suit was a night-sky blue and peppered with small white spots that gave the impression of stars, and the bowler hat perched at a jaunty angle on his hair matched. His tie wasn't nearly as subtle. It was black and lay crisp against his white dress shirt, covered in a repeating pattern of cartoony stars and moons, as though it had been picked out by a well-intentioned but very young child.

A long golden chain stretched across the front of his waistcoat from one pocket to the other, the buttons of which gleamed bronze in the overcast light. Held loosely in one hand was a polished walking cane, but he was not so infirm that he needed it. His nose was very long and crooked, like it had been broken at least twice before. On that crooked nose were a pair of half-moon spectacles. His eyes twinkled a light blue and somewhere on his person, tucked deep into the folds and pockets of his clothes, was a wand.

This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

He tapped the glowing cairn with the tip of his walking cane and the strange almost-not-purple color started to fade into nothing. He re-buttoned the front of his suit jacket and smoothed it down absently. He smiled slightly as he beheld the small village ahead, briefly grinding the balls of his feet into the gravel under his buckled and heeled boots.

Magna Tor.

It was the name of both the little village ahead and the prodigious hill whose slopes it was perched upon. The long-time residents of Magna Tor whispered that there was some ancient, deep magic slumbering below the earth. Something strong and quiet. Perhaps one of the ancient giants that had created the hills. It kept them safe from danger, they said. No storm had ever toppled a tree, nor had any wind ripped the roof off any of the cottages. Foxes didn't lay siege to the chicken coops and hawks didn't swoop to snatch the rabbits out of their pens.

Magna Tor was not big enough to host the usual collection of societal insects. At best, they had the town drunk who was neither benevolent or lovable, but caused no trouble beyond public intoxication and slurred imprecations about the townsfolk with the occasional invitation to start a fight. Not because the other, more sober pub-goers would mop the floor with him, but for reasons that none of the good townsfolk could rightfully name.

Dumbledore scraped his boots through the gravel road again, getting a feel for the ground beneath him. There was the faintest ripple of energy that had nothing to do with the ambient magic of the earth, thrumming through the dirt and stone with all the indolence of a lazy river. It was slow and heavy and somnolent, but as hot as a pool of magma.

Certainly _something_ ancient and powerful slept in the earthen cocoon of Magna Tor, but it probably wasn't what the villagers thought it was.

Something best left to sleep, he imagined.

Dumbledore started up the lane towards the village as a leisurely pace. It was cooler up here in the Peaks District than down in London, where he had come from. It had rained here recently, the ground still damp and the loam soft. Droplets of water gleamed on the blades of long grass. A thin gray mist drifted through the low valleys between the hills, twining up the gentle slopes and wreathing the rammed earth embankments of the river that flowed idly by down the valley to the right of the road. The dark clouds hung rather low overhead, fat and heavy with another round of rain.

It was a lovely walk all the same. The moorland was broad, rising and falling through the hills. Some were gentle and sloping, and others reared up sharply as though they had been pushed. From the land jutted outcroppings of stone. Some natural and some man-made piles whose original purpose was lost to time. Some had toppled over and others had held strong through the centuries. Trees had been planted around the village. Apple trees, Dumbledore saw as he got closer. Small green apples were forming on every branch; they wouldn't drop for another two months.

The hill called Magna Tor was magnificent no matter how far or close you were from it. The windward side went upwards in a swooping line that was gentle enough for the villagers to plant their houses, but just steep enough that running full throttle downwards was ill-advised. The leeward side, however, featured a rather sudden drop-off; a sheer face of limestone carved with whorls and long streaking lines that gave the impression of a frozen waterfall. Six hundred feet from the base to the very apex of its crest. It was quite a long drop.

The village of Magna Tor was a tad less impressive, overall. The home of about two hundred indviduals, it looked like every other rural village that Dumbledore had visited in his lifetime thus far. The buildings were stone and wood with metal only as reinforcement at the corners and joints. They bore no particular architectural style except maybe "sturdy". There was a sense that they were _rooted_ into the earth, so much time they had had to settle. The cottages were barely more than two floors and had sharply slanted roofs that sent rain and snow streaking right off. They were crowded together so closely that neighbors might mistake their neighbors' front stoop for their own in the dark. Ivy had climbed up the front face of nearly every cottage, shrouding the village in a coat of green. The street (for there was only one) was cobbled and narrow, twisting this way and that around the houses that had been there first.

Dumbledore trailed his hand over the remnant of the fort wall that stood to one side of the main entry and rubbed the dust between his fingers. Those stones had been laid around the early fifteen hundreds, he would wager, and the village had come along not long after that. If he went far enough up the slope, he would most likely find the foundation of the fort itself.

The village wasn't very bustling; it was no central hive of activity where people came and went at all hours of the day. The residents traveled out during the day to make their living; either out into the fields with their flocks or they drove even further to reach the larger towns. Though the children were out of school for another month, they had also been corralled into their morning chores. The villagers who sat out on their stoops were the elderly men who glanced up sharply at Dumbledore's passage and gave him a discerning questionable look, like they didn't know at all what to make of this strange man walking down their cobbled street.

Dumbledore reached the town square before he realized that the streets bore no signage and that he had no idea where he needed to go. The village wasn't nearly big enough to get lost in, but there wasn't even a hint of an address anywhere. No numbers on the front of the cottages. Mail was not delivered to each house individually; everything found its way to a post office instead.

The pleasant scent of baking bread wafted across his path.

 _I suppose, when in doubt, I follow my nose._

In a village this small, it was a given that everyone knew everyone else. The people who lived here had done so all their lives and would be laid to rest in the chapel cemetery and mourned by all. When in doubt, speak to a villager who likely saw everyone a few times a week.

The village square was where the first residents of the fifteen hundreds had dug the well. The road also widened just a bit around it and featured shop fronts such as the town hall and pub, the aforementioned post office, a cottage that was half-buried in lilacs with a sign declaring it a bed-and-breakfast, and finally the bakery he had smelled a moment ago. The door stood open to let out the warmer air from the cooking fires, so Dumbledore let himself in.

It was a small narrow shop that modern-day safety measures would have declared a fire hazard and would have had shut down. But those busybody government departments didn't exist this far out into the rural wilds. Dumbledore still winced a little at the semi-exposed flames of the ovens and his eyes tracked the paths of fluttering moths through the air. The bread loaves were wrapped in plastic and the pastries were boxed, but they were organized haphazardly. Rye bread jumbled in with the wheat. Several varieties of berry muffins shared space on the shelves with heavily frosted pastries. The aisles between the racks was like the cobbled road outside; so narrow that Dumbledore felt like he had to tuck his elbows against his sides just to make sure he didn't knock anything off.

Currently, the bakery was staffed by only a plump woman with a matronly bearing whose exact age was difficult to gauge. Muggles aged so much faster than wizards and often did so prematurely. She could have been as young as forty.

Were she a witch, Dumbledore would have placed her somewhere in her late eighties. Old enough that she was leaving middle-aged, but not old enough to become elderly. The woman's hair was starting to show strands of silver at her temples and the wrinkles were set deep enough in her skin that they weren't coming out. She had a tired, somewhat harried look about her, like she was always working too hard and had convinced herself that this was all right. Like she was stuck in a rut and had no idea there was a rut at all. She called it 'life' and moved forward, but beat the bread dough with an odd kind of vengeance.

"'Mornin'." she said to Dumbledore absently, as he came up to the counter.

Dumbledore smiled cheerfully. "Good morning, Ms..." He trailed off, prompting her to fill in the blank.

"Adams. Mae Adams." the woman said, reaching out to shake his proffered hand. Her grip was strong and firm, her palms dusted in flour. "Haven't seen you around these parts before."

"I believe this is my first visit to your charming little village." Dumbledore said.

Ms. Adams looked the old wizard from head to toe as if she was appraising every detail about him from the long plume of purple feathers clipped to his bowler hat, all the way down to the shiny buckles of his boots. An uncertain expression flickered across her face, mirroring the curmudgeonly old men out on their doorsteps. Confused by his presence in her humble bakery.

"Hope you didn't walk all the way in from Hayfield." Ms. Adams commented gruffly, her eyes sweeping again down to his boots and then to the floor behind him exactly like she was looking for mud-tracks.

"No, a gentleman in Little Hayfield was kind enough to ferry me most of the way, until the road became too narrow for his vehicle. It was a very pleasant walk." Dumbledore replied.

Ms. Adams snorted. "Just like them city boys, with them big fancy cars. Can't go the distance." she grumbled. She showed her teeth in what the headmaster imagined was meant to be a smile. "What brings you around here, stranger?"

"I've come up from London on business. I have a meeting with some folks, but I'm afraid I don't quite know where to find them." Dumbledore explained. "Perhaps you can tell where the Lupins live."

Ms. Adams hadn't exactly been sporting a terribly pleasant demeanor in the first place _-_ \- a little unwelcoming, a little put out by the interruption to her morning routine. Perhaps a little perturbed by his flashy dress. But the moment Dumbledore mentioned the family name, a sort of vicious angry triumph flashed in her eyes. Her toothy grin turned a bit savage.

"What for?" she asked.

"With regards to their youngest son. The rest is, of course, none of your business." Dumbledore replied.

"Come to take the little beast, eh?" Ms. Adams prompted, punching her fist hard into the bread dough. "'Bout time someone took care of him, know what I mean? Six years we been hearin' the little monster howl, once a month on the dot. Unnatural like, 'tis. Told the mum and dad to put him down, seeing it t'would have been kinder in the long run, yeah?"

"No, I don't believe so." Dumbledore commented, smiling blandly. "I do not find it in good taste to wish for the death of a child."

"Child?" Ms. Adams repeated sharply, spitting the word like it was a bad taste on her tongue. "Beggin' yer pardon sir, but what the Lupins pen up every month t'weren't no child I ever laid eyes on! No child makes noise like that, like his guts are being ripped out while he's alive to watch. No child does what that little monster does. It gets loose from time to time, you know. Upsets the cows. Makes them put out bad milk. I seen that 'child' you're talking about, running around here on four legs lookin' for some poor soul to tear apart in the moon's light and sir, that ain't no child!"

She finished speaking in a passionate huff, her face gleaming with recognizable triumph.

Dumbledore realized a moment after that Ms. Mae Adams was something of a village elder. Perhaps not as respected or looked to as an authority figure as the wizened old men who interpreted the laws, but otherwise seen as the wise old auntie whose wive's tales should be treated with their due respect. Ms. Adam was used to telling people her opinions and having that person respect them, if not obey. She was old, she had seen things, and her words carried more weight than the city folk would think they oughta.

"Be that as it may, where may I find the Lupins?" Dumbledore inquired. He reached over to the rack of shelves on the left. "And this box of apple strudel. It smells divine."

He couldn't smell much from the strudel box _-_ \- it had been sitting on the shelf long enough to lose any fresh-baked smells _-_ \- but if the baker was going to give him useful information, the least he could do was repay her by purchasing some of her hard work.

"Two bob pence for the strudel." Ms. Adams demanded. She waited until Dumbledore had dropped the required amount of Muggle money into her waiting hand before she made eye contact again. "Anything else?"

"Directions of the Lupin household, if by chance you know where to find them." Dumbledore said. He kept the bland smile on his face.

Ms. Adams's eyes narrowed and her lips pursed like she was being insulted. "If you ain't here to do anything about that devil-child, _what_ are you doing here?" she asked more demandingly.

Dumbledore saw that he wasn't getting out of here without giving some sort of answer. "Madam, if it will soothe your curiosity, I am the headmaster of a prestigious, merit-based boarding school." he said. Mostly the truth. "Despite young Mr. Lupin's affliction, he has met every qualification to join our august student body. I am here to extend an invitation. As I have stated, the rest is none of your business."

She wasn't a pleasant woman, on the whole, but he didn't want to modify her memory if he didn't have to.

Ms. Adams's eyes narrowed even further to little slits. "Headmasters go 'round handin' out the invites?"

"Mr. Lupin is a unique case. I thought my point would be better made in person." Dumbledore said. "Now madam, if you please, I am going to show up on the Lupins' doorstep unannounced with news they did not expect to hear and I would like to bring them some apple strudel in a timely manner. Where might I find them?"

Ms. Adams took the hint. "If you're sure about goin' to them with that attitude," she started with a great huffing sigh. "Then follow High Street back out of the village, that way-" She gestured with one hand in the opposite direction than Dumbledore had entered. "And head for the valley."

"The valley?"

"Yup. After you-know-what happened, they moved right on into this old farmhouse down there. Barely seen 'em for church since then. Guess they lost their faith." Ms. Adams said this as though it was a great tragedy. The worst thing that could happen out here.

"Havin' the devil infect their boy with somethin' awful would do it, though." she added, looking at Dumbledore as though they were good friends.

"Do have a pleasant day, Ms. Adams." the headmaster said shortly. He touched the brim of his bowler hat, then tucked the strudel box under his arm and exited the bakery. Ms. Adams grunted and returned to her dough-punching with a sullen air like she had been told off for being nosey.

Dumbledore headed up the lane, towards the peak of the tor. He had known the Lupins would be living outside the village; their owl post address still listed Magna Tor as the closest town. He just hadn't been sure how _far_ outside they had gone. The Ministry had decreed years ago that werewolves could not live in wholly Muggle villages, like Magna Tor, for both explicit safety reasons and for the purpose of not shattering the Statute of Secrecy. Mixed communities were not as harsh with the regulations, but werewolves still stayed outside the municipal limits. The countryside was the best option all around, where the monthly transformation could be muffled and controlled, less likely to attract unnecessary attention.

It didn't take Dumbledore very long at all to walk out the other side of the village. A few steps and it seemed that he was already coming out the other side. He barely had time to take in the charming rustic stone-work before the cottages suddenly gave way back to fields and the lane turned back into damp dirt. He actually looked over his shoulder to make sure that he had walked through the village at all. It fit like a stone in the palm of a giant's hand.

From the higher vantage point, he could see a greater expanse of the moorland below. There was the tilt and sway of the hillocks, the long waving grass that rippled in the constant breezes. He could see where the upland started to dip into the valley he had been instructed to find. There was a little river winding along the valley floor. He adjusted his glasses and spotted the farmhouse where the Lupins had set up residency. It occupied the plot of land alongside a barn and a watermill, the wheel of which turned in the slow current. Both buildings had been maintained, curiously enough, to the point that they were obviously in use.

"Hmm..." he hummed thoughtfully.

He pushed the strudel box into a pouch secured to his belt. The pouch appeared far too small for the box, but it fit anyways. He pushed the tip of his walking stick into the ground and it stood upright on its own. Then he dug his hands into his coat pockets, his fingers creeping past a pair of salt-and-pepper shakers, several light-bulbs, quite a lot of tangled yarn, and then past a pair of woolly socks before they happened upon the pointy edges of a folder. He pulled the folder out, sending several clementines and a beard comb tumbling to the ground.

"Quite rude of you." Dumbledore commented. He waved his hand. The clementines and the comb hastily stuffed themselves back into the pocket. "But I really must remember to clean out my pockets some time."

The folder contained the official administrative file on the Lupins, everything from birth to schooling to current employment records and the members of their family ever since they had registered as Newbloods. It was as thin as anything and light as a feather, but opened up as thick as an encyclopedia and was tabbed with the last six generations of the family. The tabs were shared by the married couples and then subdivided by the children; the living members towards the front and the deceased towards the back.

As far as files went, it was hardly the biggest. Newblood families were the smallest families registered, so their files just didn't compete with the Old Nobles, who had a _minimum_ of fifty generations.

These files were not actually supposed to leave the Ministry grounds, but no one would ever think that Albus Dumbledore had nefarious ideas in mind.

Dumbledore selected the tab for the current family patriarch and his wife, to refresh his memory on what the Lupins did for a living. He didn't think either of their jobs necessarily involved the regular use of a watermill.

Lyall Lupin was the son of Ylva and Ulric Lupin (Dumbledore did a double-take over the names and chuckled) and the current family patriarch. He had a sister, Luperca, married but childless as she and her husband enjoyed traveling too much to settle down and raise children. The Lupins were a Newblood family, meaning they had achieved five generations of unbroken magical inheritance and had produced number six.

Lyall was employed by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He had transferred from the Spirit Division to the Werewolf Support Office shortly after his young son's "accident" and had spent most of his time in independent study on lycanthropy. He had written several papers, plumbing the depths of folk medicine and superstitions in an effort to find something that could either cure lycanthropy or lessen its effects. His efforts were commendable, but they had thus far failed to bear any fruit. Lyall was a wizard of no particular skill. A jack of all trades, ranging from mediocre to average in his pursuits. If his efforts bore fruit, they would come out of gritty determination and not flash-bang genius.

Hope Lupin was a Muggleborn witch whose magic had bloomed rather late. She had been nearly eleven years old before she experienced her first emotional burst of accidental magic and not a strong one at that. Dumbledore recalled the young witch from her Hogwarts days. Then Miss Howell, she had been well-versed in the theory of magic and spells, and quite intelligent to boot, but no amount of tutoring had ever improved her ability to apply practical magic. Some witches and wizards just weren't that strong.

As an adult, Hope had eschewed a career that required strenuous use of magic and had instead opted for something that needed a lighter touch. She worked for the Improper Use of Magic office: the Muggle Excuse Division. Her job was to come up with a plausible explanation for a Muggle who had just watched a magical incident occur. She worked in tandem with a highly trained Obliviator, who performed the task of modifying the Muggle's memory.

The Lupins had three children, all of whom were somewhat unfortunately named. Dumbledore had no idea which grandcestor had started the tradition of giving their children names with wolf themes, but they needed to come back from the grave to tell their descendants to stop.

Romulus was the eldest child; he had graduated Hogwarts this past June. The youngest child and only daughter Accalia was only four, so she wouldn't start at Hogwarts for another seven years. If Dumbledore was correct with the math, then she would start the very same year after her next oldest brother had left.

 **If** , that is, the headmaster could convince Remus Lupin that Hogwarts indeed had a place for him.

Dumbledore snapped the folder shut and tucked it back among the mess in his pocket. Then he plucked his walking stick up out of the ground, brushed away the flowers that had tried to bloom on it, and began his stroll down into the valley.

It was a thirty minute walk down the switchback path that was carved into the side of the tor and into the valley that turned a tad treacherous when it began to rain along the way. It came on sudden and drenching, but like a falling curtain of mist and damp, allowing Dumbledore to turn his wand up in time like an umbrella. The rain turned the dirt lane under his boots into a muddy soup alarmingly quickly and he had to high-step just to not spatter mud right up to his knees.

The farmhouse was two floors of grayed brick constructed in an unappealing block shape, like a long rectangle. Green ivy had curled and climbed up the entire north face of the house, only hacked back so it was clear of the windows there. The front porch had been a much more recent addition to the house, probably added by the Lupins for the wood hadn't faded near enough to suggest it had been there even ten years.

The muddy lane Dumbledore strolled along split three ways across the property, to the house, to the barn, and to the watermill, each cobbled over with cross-hatched stones that caught the soles of his boots before they could dare to slip. A low stone wall surrounded the edge of the property in unconnected halves of boxes, stopping at the river bank.

The watermill was directly ahead on the other bank of the slow river. A stone bridge arched over it and the path led to the mill's front door. Dumbledore noticed a boy's face peering out from between the curtains of a small window under the peak of the pointed roof. The headmaster saw the sharp gleam of amber-gold eyes, then the curtain's twitched and the boy's face vanished.

There was a tilled and weeded garden patch not far from the front porch that featured mostly flowers. They were largely normal flowers; nothing overtly magical. The roses did seem a little redder than roses normally would be and the daisies were quacking softly, shaking the rain from their leaves every now and again. Most of the flower heads drooped under the rain, except for the dragon lilies which hissed and steamed the water away.

Hope Lupin was waiting just inside the door, stepping out onto the porch as he dismissed the umbrella charm. She was a fair-skinned woman with blue-gray eyes and oak-brown hair, the latter pulled back in a simple bun to keep it out of her face. If Dumbledore hadn't already know she was a Muggleborn, he would have guessed it from the moment he'd laid eyes on her attire. She hadn't gone far from her Muggle roots. Hope was dressed in a matching blouse and knee-length skirt, of thin blue stripes making a grid pattern across a white background. Her legs were bare all the way down to her toes. No witch of magical birth would prance around in bare legs when strange company had come a-calling. It was simply not done.

"Good morning, Professor Dumbledore." she said, her mouth jumping on both habit and good manners. She was a grown adult who had been out of school for a while now; she didn't _have_ to call him 'professor' anymore.

"Good morning, my dear. I hope I'm not interrupting anything." Dumbledore said, smiling broadly.

"No, of course not. What brings you out here?" Hope asked curiously, her eyes traveling up and down his form like she could physically see the reason for his unexpected visit.

"A bit of good news, I hope, that is best discussed inside. Strudel?"

Hope looked down at the box of strudel that he had produced and seemed to visibly prevent herself from blanching. Her smiled suddenly became fixed. It was as if glancing down at the apple strudel had helped her to figure out the reason for the headmaster's appearance on her doorstep.

"Oh professor, I'm so sorry, but this just isn't the time. The house is a mess and I have so much to do _-_ \- I'll have to ask you come back later." Hope said sweetly, already closing the door.

Dumbledore jammed his foot in before she could get it closed all the way. "Nonesense, Missus Lupin. Quite the contrary, I find this to be the perfect time. As it is the only time I was able to find to get away from my summer duties at the Ministry. I beg just twenty minutes of your morning."

"Oh I just couldn't _-_ -" Hope shook her head and probably would have kicked his foot out of the way if she hadn't wanted to risk bruising her toes. "I'd make such ever dreadful company this morning, you see, womanly things _-_ -"

She gave the door a shove, hoping to dislodge him. But Dumbledore had not spent over a month making his arguments to the Wizengamot and the Caucus to be turned away at the door. There was a quite a lot riding on the next twenty minutes. He was not dislodged.

"Missus Lupin, I do understand what's going through your mind at this moment, but I have excellent news regarding your son's future in the magical world." Dumbledore said.

"Hah!" Hope barked out a sarcastic laugh and resumed trying to shut the door on his foot. "Remus doesn't _have_ a future in the magical world! We've known that since he was five! _He's_ known that! Werewolves don't go to Hogwarts!"

"Quite the contrary, you'll find _-_ -"

"I hope you didn't come all this way just to remind us of that! He was just starting to get used to the idea, so don't you _dare_ end up giving him a little bit of hope when there wasn't-"

"Hope Lupin, this really isn't _-_ -"

"Get off my bloody porch!"

Light flashed just above Dumbledore's hat, harmless but alarming and enough to make him jerk his head back reflexively. Hope seized upon the moment of distraction and shoved all of her weight against the door, pinching the old wizard's foot painfully. Dumbledore yanked his boot out and the door slammed shut immediately. He heard a lock click from the inside.

"Missus Lupin, I strongly urge that you reconsider." Dumbledore suggested, tapping lightly on the door. "Really, this is very important. You'll want to hear this, your entire family."

There was no response and no movement that he could hear. Quite the opposite, he got the strong sense that he was being ignored. The headmaster thought for a moment. Forcing his way in wouldn't do; the protective threshold wards would turn him back the instant he attempted it. Trying at all would only make Mrs. Lupin react in an openly hostile manner, which was simply no good.

Dumbledore turned as though looking for a solution... And his gaze alighted on the watermill.

It wasn't necessarily Mr. and Mrs. Lupin he had to speak with. They weren't the ones this matter concerned. All he really had to do was have a quick chat with young Remus Lupin and as it happened, he was not in the house.

The old wizard trotted off the porch under the umbrella charm and walked briskly down the path, over the bridge, and up to the front door of the water mill. He rapped lightly on the door with the hook of his walking stick, listening to the burbling water and the creak of the wheel as it turned. A moment after, the door opened just a crack and the face of an eleven-year old boy appeared, back-lit by a warm yellow glow.

"Good morning, young Mr. Lupin. Could I beg a moment of your time?" Dumbledore inquired with a jovial smile.

"S-Sir..." Remus started uncertainly, eyes darting left and right as though he was expecting further company. "You're Professor Dumbledore? From Hogwarts?"

"Indeed I am."

"What the bloody hell _-_ \- I mean _-_ \- W-What are you doing here?"

"To be a bearer of good news. I had intended to speak with your parents first, but your mother was keen to not let me past the front door." Dumbledore explained. "However, the matter I wish to discuss largely concerns you and your future in the magical world. I thought perhaps I could speak first with you, before we attempt to bring this to your parents again."

Remus opened the door a little wider so he could get a better look at the visitor. A light just beside the door shone across his face and made his eyes shine eerily. Dumbledore squashed any urge to recoil, holding both his ground and a pleasant smile, even as his stomach squirmed a little.

Young Remus's eyes were amber-gold. The only true outward sign of his lycanthropy. They didn't have the vertical pupils of a wolf and there was a human mind looking out from the inside, but at the edges there lurked something of the wolf.

It was July 24th, 1969.

The full moon had passed just two days ago.

Remus's nostrils flared and he inhaled deeply. "Is that apple strudel from Ms. Adams's bakery?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm more than happy to share." Dumbledore said, proferring the box. Unlike with his mother, the box did not make Remus blanch or recoil. Rather, he pushed the door open wide in invitation.

"I have the kettle on for some tea." he said. "Please come inside, Professor Dumbledore. Mind the step."

Dumbledore smiled and stepped in after the young wizard, finding that the floor was a good six inches lower than the ground outside. He realized two things about the watermill right away. The most innocuous of them was that the mill-house had been something of a get-away of sorts for the Lupins' children. There was a squashy couch that was an unfortunate shade of brown that made Dumbledore want to flush it down the toilet. It was accompanied by an old armchair a similarly uninspired shade of green. Simple white curtains hung over the windows and a handsome, if threadbare, rug across the floor. There was a case of books against one wall and a functional kitchenette against the other. The stove-top had two burners, one with a kettle on top, and the ice chest was tucked away under the sink. The lighting came from the polished yellow-white helite crystals that were ubiquitous in every Wizarding household and building.

The second was the reason for the functional water-wheel. The most robust wards were the ones powered by kinetic energy. The river kept the wheel spinning and so long as the wheel spun, the wards anchored to it would never cease.

"Did you feel them?" Remus asked absently, as he crossed the floor to the stove-top.

"Yes, I did." Dumbledore replied. He peered at the ceiling, silently willing the wards to become visible. But no wizard alive could see ward-lines with the naked eye. But by golly he could taste them in the back of his throat, slightly bitter like old limes.

"Those are barrier wards. They keep me fenced in once a month." Remus informed him. "Mum and Dad used to lock me in here, but when I was seven I _-_ \- uh, when I broke down the door. I do better out in the field, having the space."

"Ah, I see we are not standing on pretenses." Dumbledore smiled gently. "But do you know what brings me all the way out here?"

"I imagine you're not here for strudel."

"But what if I am?"

"You're not." Remus said, sure of this. Ms. Adams had been baking for years, but that didn't mean she made a good strudel.

"True." Dumbledore conceded. The kettle started to whistle. "Why don't we have some tea and I'll tell you what business has brought me all the way out to Magna Tor and your front step."

Remus tried not to move too quickly as he retrieved a set of sturdy mugs from the cupboard. He had to fist his hands briefly to try and get them to stop shaking. There were only so many reasons why Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, would come all the way out to Magna Tor in the middle of the summer. It had nothing to do with Romulus. He had already graduated. Accalia would go in seven years (provided that nothing happened in the meantime), but she was still too young to worry about that just yet.

But Remus himself...

If things had been a little different, he would be starting Hogwarts this fall.

He had stopped thinking of Hogwarts as a possibility once it had fully sunk into his mind what it was like for werewolves in the real world. They were on or close to the same level as Squibs in how they were treated. Worse in some ways. They weren't allowed to learn magic through any Ministry-approved channels, or carry wands. The latter could be discreetly remedied through back-alley means, but the cost was exorbitant and the dealers didn't always accept Muggle money. So few wizards were willing to employ a werewolf, afraid of the potential risks and the safety of their customers. Remus had learned young that he could mostly expect to live in the Muggle world. His parents were slowly, systematically removing the traces of magical influence from their home, as though they were trying to ease him into the idea of living like a Muggle.

Remus had been jealous of both of his siblings for the last six years, knowing that what had happened to him was nothing that he could help or change. It was beyond his control and the wizarding world seemed content to damn him anyways.

So he wasn't going to Hogwarts.

But what was the headmaster _doing_ all the way out here?

Remus brought the mugs, the kettle, and the tea tin over to the sitting area. There was a used industrial spool in the middle of the rug, sitting on its side. A tablecloth had been thrown over it and that was enough to turn it into a coffee table.

As Dumbledore poured himself a cup of strong tea and cut the strudel into manageable sections, he studied young Remus from the corner of his eye. He was skinny in the way growing boys often were and sported a slightly hollow-eyed look as though he didn't sleep well. His hair was a sandy tone and hung in a shaggy manner not unlike a wolf's ruff. He was pale skinned and slightly sickly-looking; something that could be attributed to the monthly transformations. They were hard on adults, but Dumbledore imagined that they were brutal for a child.

"Dad's out." Remus announced, for no other reason than to fill in what he thought was an awkward silence. "He's gone to Glasgow for the day, to the Pendragon Memorial Library. He thinks he's on to something."

"Is he?" Dumbledore asked curiously.

"No."

"Are you certain?"

Remus nodded. "When he came home yesterday, he said that he didn't find anything at the library." he explained. "He nearly walked in on himself and that was when he realized he'd gotten home twelve hours before he left this morning. Technically he _is_ home, but no one's allowed to go into the barn until tomorrow morning and we have to act like he's not there."

"I see." Dumbledore smiled. "Your father might be dodging butterflies at the moment, but you'll be quite pleased to know that my labors from the last week have borne quite a rare fruit." He said. He rummaged a hand into the inside pocket under his jacket flap and placed an envelope on the tablecloth between them. Remus withdrew at the sight of it.

"What is that?" he asked suspiciously.

"Why don't you have a look and find out?" Dumbledore suggested cheerfully.

Remus reached out slowly towards the envelope, brushing his fingers against the parchment. It was heavy white parchment, stiff as a piece of cardboard under his fingers. But it was quality parchment, finely milled with few imperfections to speak of. His home address was written on the front in curling letters, shining bright blue in the light.

"Professor Dumbledore, is this what I think it is?" he asked, his voice dry and quiet.

"What precisely do you think it is?" Dumbledore inquired.

Remus picked up the envelope and turned it over. On the wax seal holding it shut was a large letter H. He swallowed hard and a cold shiver rattled down his spine. There was no doubting _what_ it was. It was most certainly a Hogwarts letter, but that was _impossible_. His chances of attending any wizarding school had plummeted the moment Fenrir Greyback had forced his way through the wards and through the narrow bedroom window of their old house to sink his fangs into then-young Remus's shoulder.

"This is impossible." Remus whispered, his voice trembling.

"Oh, not at all." Dumbledore said pleasantly. "You'll find that it is quite legitimate. I've signed it myself. Please have a piece of strudel and I will explain how I worked this bit of magic."

But Remus was already pulling up the wax seal. He snatched out the two pieces of parchment within and skimmed quickly over the letter. It wasn't the standard letter that he had he read from Romulus's acceptance, but instead addressed directly to him with assurances that he had indeed been accepted and that the proper precautions were underway.

His breathing turned harsh and shallow.

"I'm... I'm in? I'm going to Hogwarts?" he asked, looking up at the professor.

"Oh, indeed. You, my dear boy, now have the opportunity to attend Hogwarts." Dumbledore said, smiling much more broadly. "I'm sure you've been following the recent protests on the matter of Beast versus Being and the Ministry's sudden shuffling of the classification."

Remus nodded silently. Werewolves had been flip-flopping between the two categories for as long there had been categories to flip between. They had been shuffled back into Being as of the last week.

"As you can imagine, I saw an opportunity, though it took five hours of goblin poetry before the Caucus was willing to hear me out." Dumbledore went on. His throat had been a bit sore by the time he'd been finished. "I posed this to the Caucus: If a werewolf is classified as a Being, then it suggests that barring one day out of the month, a werewolf is fully capable of understanding and abiding by the laws of Wizarding Britain. The re-classification likewise implies that a werewolf is fully capable of being a functional member of magical society."

"I'm sure they told you that it's damned impossible." Remus commented, finding his voice again.

"If you could mind your language, Mr. Lupin. Yes, they were quite firm on that point. But they did hum a slightly different melody when I reminded them that such a thing has never been tried." Dumbledore agreed. He sipped his tea and took a moment to savor its lemony flavor. "From that point on, I made a rather stellar argument for the education of young wizards who happen to be werewolves. That young boys like Remus Lupin should be given the same equal opportunity for a full magical education as their peers. That even one day a month should not stand in their way of becoming the wizard they are meant to be.

"Well, Speaker Rowland-Gates seemed to think that I had issued him a direct challenge. If I could... _scare_ up a young werewolf of the appropriate age by the thirty-first of this month, they would indulge my fool-hardy notions."

"You got me into Hogwarts," Remus said slowly, incredulously. "On a dare?"

"Speaker Rowland-Gates sees it as a dare. I see it as a rare opportunity to begin breaking down the walls of prejudice that we wizards have the unfortunate habit of clinging to." Dumbledore said.

"No, wait a second." Remus set his mug down with an unnecessary thump. "There are _enormous_ ramifications to what you're saying, Professor Dumbledore. Not the least of which is what can happen if the other students that there's a bloody fucking _werewolf_ living in the same dorm as them! What's going to happen if they find out? Where am I going to transform every month? _Who's_ going to know? Because I'm a wreck after every full moon, Professor! Someone's going to have to come fetch me and I don't start feeling human again until the evening _-_ \- Or at least that's when I can hold a coherent conversation again. Do you know how much I _eat_? Before _and_ after a full moon? I'm hungry all the time. It's a nightmare."

"All good questions, Mister Lupin. And all very understandable concerns." Dumbledore smiled broadly, holding up a hand to forestall further comments. "The staff will be the only ones informed of your persistent condition. We have several safe-guards already in place and they will stay regardless of whether or not you join us this year. We do not wish to go full-bore with the details, in case you do not wish to join us."

"Wish to?" Remus repeated in disbelief. "Of course I _wish_ to. I went to Bluehallow Primary. Hogwarts was all anyone could talk about the last few months. I _want_ to go!"

"But?" Dumbledore prompted.

"But I'm a _werewolf_!" Remus hissed, as though the word was a particularly foul curse. "I'm _dangerous_! If I get loose on the full moon and bite someone, it won't matter how old I am! I'll be lucky just to be thrown in Azkaban!"

"However, you acknowledge that you are not dangerous any other day of the month, yes?" Dumbledore inquired.

"N-No, they've got werewolf lore all wrong." Remus said, shrugging and shaking his head. "I mean, I feel like chasing the sheep sometimes and I growled at Pastor Thomas last week when he got too close to my sister _-_ \- Pastor Thomas likes little girls, you see; everyone knows it. And I may have rolled in the _-_ \- ahem, _dirt_ with Mr. Colyer's collie a few days ago, but I've never felt that blood-thirst all the books say werewolves experience all the time. It's like how everyone used to say vampires couldn't resist going feral. It's not like that at all."

Dumbledore clapped his hands. "There, you see? If any of that clap-trap about constant bloodthirstiness was at all true, why we'd have werewolf attacks so frequent that even the Muggles would know all about it." He smiled reassuringly at the eleven-year old. "Instead, you experience behaviors that are rather off-putting at times, but will bring no harm whatsoever to your classmates. One night out of the entire month is nothing to fret about."

He reached under his suit coat and pulled out a much larger envelope that conceivably would not have fit into any pockets, and slid it across the coffee table to Remus.

"This contains all the pertinent information regarding our safe and humane method of containment. Certainly read it over yourself and pass it on to your parents for their perusal. If they any questions or suggestions or improvements, they may send us an owl. We want to make this as comfortable and safe as possible for you, young Mr. Lupin. I _do_ hope you will join us at Hogwarts."

Remus bit his lip. "I want to go, but..." His hands wrapped around one another and squeezed. His fingers were tingling. "I don't know."

"I imagine you must have more reservations than I can guess." Dumbledore nodded sympathetically. "Please take some time to think it over, though we will need your return owl by the thirty-first. Bear in mind that if you choose not to make the most of this, there may not be another chance."

And there was the rub. This was a one time only deal. The Speaker of the Caucus had an easily bruised ego that was quick to heal. If Dumbledore couldn't "scare up" a young werewolf of the appropriate age, then Speaker Rowland-Gates would shove this all down into the bin and haughtily pretend such a thing like "werewolves attending Hogwarts" had never come up in the first place. Some new mandate might go out to further restrict a young werewolf's education. Maybe they would be locked out of the primary schools next.

But if Remus took this rare opportunity and went to Hogwarts... If he did it _right_ , then he might just wedge open a door that had been closed to werewolves for the longest time. This wasn't just a chance to get a full education, but to prove to the entire wizarding world that werewolves weren't the mindless beasts that everyone was taught they were.

"I _-_ \- I need some time to think." Remus said, his tongue tripping a little over the words.

"Of course, young Mr Lupin. Sleep on it. Speak with your parents. I look forward to your answer and I do very much hope to see you at Hogwarts." Dumbledore said kindly. He drained the last of his tea and set the cup down gently on the saucer. "Thank you for the tea and the chat. Do enjoy the strudel."

He stood up and offered the eleven-year old a small bow and a twinkling smile. Then he took his walking stick firmly under hand again and showed himself out, raising his wand against the mist of rain that rushed up to greet him. Then the door swung shut in his wake, leaving Remus on the couch with a cup of tea, two envelopes, and more reservations - and hope - about his future than he ever thought he could have.

-0-

5-20-19: Minor edits made for spelling/adjusted continuity.


	2. Defensive Mimicry

Chapter Two: Defensive Mimicry

 _It was hazy in the way dreams were. He knew it was a dream because this was Hogwarts and he hadn't made any decision, yes or no. He knew it was a dream because it was the middle of the summer still and the last thing he remembered was falling asleep in his own bed._

 _So it was hazy and indistinct, because dreams were like that._

 _But it was still Hogwarts even if it had been made up half out of his imagination and he could almost smell and taste the magic that floated in the air. Here and there it was harsh and spicy. In others, it was soft like a sweetened cream. Or whippy and stretched like cheese. Or it lingered on like the faint perfume of flowers and fruit._

 _Color was ever-present. Magic was always a color. It sparkled and glimmered along the edges of his vision, flitting past him with the impression of gossamer wings. Almost tangible enough to touch, but not quite._

 _Faceless students slid past him, their voices muddled, simultaneously too soft and too loud. Maybe they had long hair or short, but the only properly distinguishing feature about them was the dominant color of their school robes._

 _There was a sense of air and freedom as he walked; nothing to hold him down. Sunlight gleamed in through stain-glass windows, sending a kaleidoscope of colors across cobblestone floors. He saw above the heads of the other students and then, quite suddenly, he was seeing the world from waist-level and he had the dreadful sense that he was walking around on four legs rather than two._

 _That was when the dream turned foul and the walls closed in. The crowd around him melted away, shouts echoing in his newly triangular ears. The scent of fear tickled in his nose, smelling strangely rancid and sweet at the same time. But the fur along his shoulders and back rose in warning and long canines jutted from his upper jaw and then he was running. No longer did he feel free and weightless, but tied down with muscles that wouldn't move easily, fighting for every inch he gained. The corridor turned slowly until he seemed to be running along the wall and there was a crack like breaking glass and there was empty sky above below him-_ -

Remus's eyes snapped open and he woke up properly with a prolonged inhale that inflated his chest so much that it seemed he might heave himself right off the mattress. He exhaled just as suddenly, like a balloon popping, and touched his forehead absently. His fingers came away a bit damp with sweat. He was safe in his bed, the blanket tangled tight around his legs.

"Bloody hell, Dumbledore..." he huffed.

Remus had the only thing he could do and slept on the decision of Hogwarts or not.

He hadn't slept very well.

The dream had repeated itself four or five or six times throughout the night, ending a little differently every time. The wolf-self had always fallen, but off a tower or down the stairs or the floor had just straight up vanished. Either way, Remus had always woken up with a heart-stopping jerk and a gasp for air before reality had reasserted itself.

Falling in dreams meant something less than pleasant, but he couldn't remember what.

Remus pushed himself up onto his elbows, peering around the early morning gloom of his bedroom. The pair of windows faced north, so his bedroom received the least amount of sunlight at any hour of the day. The curtains, however, had been opened part of the way, showing the mist that had accumulated outside during the overnight. Remus squinted in the direction of his wardrobe, trying to see if there was a stack of laundry his mother had left for him to put away. Sometimes, Hope was just wide awake at four in the morning, so she got up to do something productive with herself rather than lay in bed. If she brought up the clean laundry, she usually flicked the curtains open to see where she was walking.

Not that Remus left anything on the floor to trip over.

But the stool where the clean laundry was often deposited was empty. Remus turned his head to peer back at the curtains and waved his hand at them. They fluttered as if a breeze had caught them, but otherwise didn't move.

" _Motus_." Remus commanded, waving his hand in the same gesture demonstrated in Romulus's old spellbooks.

The curtains fluttered enthusiastically this time, but they still didn't close up like he had been intending. Instead, a nearby stack of books fell over. Maybe he just wasn't putting enough oomph into the spell or - more likely - what he really needed was a wand.

Wandless magic was a crapshoot, at best.

But it was the only thing at his disposal.

Unless he went to Hogwarts.

Remus looked at his desk, where the Hogwarts letter and the information packet had been since last night. He had read through the proposed safety measures. They were more thorough and secure and redundant than he cared to admit. Functional and redundant safety measures to contain the werewolf meant that Remus was running out of reasons to turn down the invitation.

Everything so far had met his approval and the stars were all but lining up in the heavens. He might be able to actually go to Hogwarts _-_ \- a werewolf in Hogwarts! _-_ \- but there was one last hurdle to clear before he would know if this was what the universe really wanted for him.

His parents.

At the mere age of eleven, Remus was a minor and therefore, he needed his parents' approval. There would be forms that required their signature. Just to get them to the point of signing the forms, Remus would first have to sell them on the idea.

He groaned at the thought.

Remus loved his parents very much, like children did, but he also had a realistic idea of how they would react. The shock would come first and it would be followed by disbelief, commentary that he was having them on. It was crucial to push them out of that disbelief and into acknowledgement as quickly as possible. If he didn't manage that, they would turn dismissive and any further attempts to bring the topic of Hogwarts back into the conversation would end in a swift shut-down.

Remus's parents loved their youngest son very much, like parents did, but they had accepted the reality of his situation a long time ago. There was no future for him in the Magical world and to entertain even the faintest of hopes otherwise was foolhardy.

In the time it took him to make his bed and change into more appropriate day-clothes, Remus had cobbled together something like a plan. There would be no good way to introduce the topic to the breakfast table; he'd have to do it fast like ripping off a band-aid. It was like strategizing a poker game with only one good card in his hand; he'd have to frame everything around it and hope that the opponents would fall for his bluff. The only advantage was that Remus knew his parents. He could predict their responses with a high level of accuracy and it would be a partial matter of pre-empting them. Head them off at the pass before they could give him the usual litany of excuses.

 _I want to go to Hogwarts._

Suddenly it wasn't even a decision anymore.

Remus tucked the Hogwarts letter into his trouser pocket and picked up the information packet. Then he walked out of his room and to the head of the stairs, where he tilted his head and listened to the sounds filtering up through the house.

When they had moved into the farmhouse, the attic bedroom under the eaves had appealed to him the most. He thought maybe that it had been the newly-born wolf in him seeking out an easily defended and "cozy" space to pass as a den. Regardless of the wolf's feelings on the matter, Remus rather liked the sloped ceiling and the exposed rafters and the heavier insulation that kept the warm air in and everything else out.

Sounds and scents included.

It was easier to fall asleep when his senses weren't under assault. Accalia was an unusually active sleeper, tossing and turning every which way and making her bed squeak relentlessly, though she slept very soundly most nights. And Romulus, frankly, kept his asshole clenched so tight all day that it couldn't relax until he was properly asleep, at which point an interesting menagerie of scents came shooting out in drawn-out farts.

Remus tilted his head a little more. He could hear his parents in the kitchen, the dishes rattling as they cooked breakfast, and the Wireless played softly in the background. Accalia seemed to be opening and slamming shut the drawers in her wardrobe for no apparent reason, singing a counting song she had learned from the children in town. It was oddly morbid in the way children's songs tended to be as though the more graphic the lyrics, the easier for the child to remember them. It was a Muggle's song, so it did lack a more grisly sort of undertone that tended to be present in wizarding childrens' songs. There wasn't much sound from Romulus's room, but he was probably just lying awake, staring at the ceiling and working himself up to actually getting out of bed.

A normal morning in the Lupin house-hold.

Remus began his descent down the stairs.

The farmhouse was big, but it had been hastily abandoned by its previous owners some fifteen years before the Lupins had moved in. The family of eight (all Muggles and whittled down to four now that the eldest children had grown up and left) had run screaming from the house on a cold February night, so the story went. It hadn't been very late at night, so the pub-goers had still been awake and aware to hear the Meyerholtzes tearing down the street, hollering at the top of their lungs.

It had taken a pint of bitter each to get an explanation out of Mr. and Mrs. Meyerholtz. They had spun a yarn about the house being haunted - that for months they had been hearing strange noises at night and encountering cold spots by day. Unseen hands had touched them and one of the older children had taken a rather nasty fall halfway down the stairs, among other typical signs of a less-than benevolent haunting. A group of Magna Tor's least terrified men, including Ulric Lupin, had girded up to investigate and Pastor Thomas had come along to bless the house and drive out any spirits.

If there had been any spirits to drive out, Remus didn't know. When his parents had come to inspect the house before moving in, they had found no additional post-conscious entities that should not have been there. After a few weeks in occupancy, Hope and Lyall had reported back to their curious neighbors on the subject and informed them that the house was, in fact, not haunted after all. The whole incident had been chalked up to Mr. Meyerholtz having nightmares about the European front.

It was possible, Lyall had opined about a year later, that there had been a ghost or two in the house. Something had frightened the Meyerholtzes right out onto the street and as far as Little Hayfield, after all. But if anyone had banished them, it had been Grandfather Ulric and not Pastor Thomas's impassioned screeching of Bible verses.

Remus stepped lightly off the last step into the foyer and laid the information packet on the side table as he passed it. He couldn't bring it to the breakfast table; he might not even get past the opening remarks. The easiest thing to do was to leave it sitting out where Romulus could see it. His gaping-mouthed brother would flap it around and demand to know why Hogwarts was talking about werewolf containment measures. That would give Remus an opening.

"...happened in the history section, probably." Lyall was saying as he turned the bacon. "Librarians said they'd been losing books all over the place. Copies turning up a week before they actually went missing _-_ \- Good morning Remus _-_ \- and one of the shelvers, you know, little Russian fellow with the thickest accent I ever heard, came out thinking it was still May."

"I've said it hundreds of time, dear. Books have power." Hope said, toasting the bread. She glanced over her shoulder. "Good morning, Remus. And when you get that many books in the same place, things are bound to happen. The older the facility, the worse it is. Remember the Hogwarts library?"

Lyall shuddered. "Oh, finding anything in there was a nightmare." he commented. "Pendragon's bad enough, though. The new building is only two hundred years old, but sometimes all you need is fifty years and the whole thing twists up. I hate bloody L-space. You could end up halfway around the world and not realize it for hours."

Remus didn't sit down immediately, waiting to see if his parents would acknowledge him beyond a token "good morning". They rarely did, but he always waited that extra ten seconds. When he was sure that they were too wrapped up in their complaints about magical libraries, he sat down and started to serve himself eggs.

It wasn't their fault. There was only so much worrying about him they could do before they were on track for an emotional burn-out. So they pent it up all month and saved their worry for him until the full moon. The rest of the month, they acknowledged him as though he was a piece of furniture; they recognized that he was in the room and apologized if they bumped into him.

They loved him, Remus knew, but detaching themselves emotionally from his situation made it easier to bear. For Lyall, this had turned into an intellectual challenge. Finding a cure for lycanthropy was now about proving his mettle as a former Ravenclaw.

For Hope, the full moon was something she regarded as regular and surprising as her monthly period. She always knew it was coming and always managed to be surprised by it, met it with resignation every time, and really didn't sleep when it happened.

At times, Remus couldn't help but feel that his parents had managed to completely forget that there was a person attached to this condition. In that way, he almost envied them. He'd love to be able to detach himself from the situation, but the lycanthropy had infiltrated every aspect of his life; from a future that had been snatched from him right down to his regard for regular bathing. He had no choice but to accept the lemons life had thrown at him, or else he'd never get anything done.

His parents, try though they did, couldn't understand. They couldn't walk a mile in shoes that didn't fit.

The last of the food was transferred over to the table - the bacon crisped up and the perfectly toasted bread - as Romulus swanned into the kitchen with Accalia bouncing at his heels.

"Morning all." he said, vaguely pompous.

"Good morning, Romulus." Hope kissed her son lightly on the cheek, while Lyall grunted through a sip of his morning tea. "Did you sleep well?"

Romulus shrugged noncommittally. He looked dapper, as always; a mirror image of their father, but with a lighter coloring all around. Lyall sported shaggy blonde hair that always looked sort of dusty and a ruddy skin tone, but Romulus inherited the sleeker quality of their mother's hair that went better with the lighter blonde. His skin was paler and his eyes were bluer, but he had the same strong jawline and broad shoulders and narrow waist that let him carry off the waistcoat-and-tunic combination with ease.

"Go'mornin' Mummy!" Accalia all but shouted and threw herself in the general direction of her mother's knees in a display of affection. She did the same to Lyall and then basically headbutted Remus in the ribs.

She had grasped the concept that physical contact was equivalent to affection, but it hadn't clicked in her four-year old mind that you were also supposed to stand still long enough to receive physical contact back.

Once she had completed the hit-and-run of morning greetings, she clambered into her booster seat and deposited a handful of loose stones onto the table-top. She started to sort through them, ignoring the breakfast food on the table.

"Has the mail come yet?" Romulus asked, pouring a cup of tea for himself.

"No, not yet. The fog is fairly thick this morning, so the owls are probably flying slower." Lyall replied. "Why, are you expecting a letter?" He looked positively intrigued that his son was receiving correspondence. "Is there a special someone in your life?"

Romulus made a face. "No. I applied to the RCS, remember?" he prompted. "I've been expecting a reply. The standard wait time is seven days."

"Seven to ten business days." Remus corrected.

"I didn't ask you." the eighteen-year old snapped. "But if they accepted me, I should be getting a response very soon."

The RCS, or the Royal College of Sorcery, was the next step in education for many a newly-graduated witch or wizard. It offered advanced courses in any number of subjects, including government-related courses, and usually with such well-rounded curriculums that even the major craft guilds now required a two-year degree from a prospective apprentice. Anyone seeking a serious position in the Ministry had to have the RCS on their transcripts.

Romulus had been an excellent student and he had gone through all the appropriate motions to make his Hogwarts transcript look very appealing, as well as apply for any available scholarships. Several clubs, the voluntary seventh year community services, and a small list of awards related to dueling, potion-making, and debate. It was very uncommon that any wizard would be rejected outright by the Royal College and even less likely that a Hogwarts graduate of Romulus's calibre would be turned down point-blank.

Lyall looked bewildered, like he honestly did not recall that Romulus had been interested in attending the Royal College nor that he had applied at all, but Hope clapped her hands together lightly.

"I was _just_ going to ask if you'd been thinking about it." she said brightly. She smiled pleasantly at her oldest son. "I'm so glad you're taking the initiative to further your education. One of my sons needs to have a good job."

Remus had learned long ago to stop flinching when his mother said things like that. She didn't mean it maliciously, but that didn't stop it from sounding mean-spirited.

"Do you know if you qualify for any scholarships?" Hope wondered.

For a split-second, Romulus looked affronted that such a question was even being posed. "I've done my homework, Mum." he assured her. "The Frusannah de Malleville Scholarship for Young Duelists is available, though I would be expected to join the Duelists Club."

"You love dueling." Hope commented.

"Hmm, well the Grymbaud Scholarship is more blanket. They're both partial, so it would only cover tuition and books." Romulus went on. "Myself and some friends are planning to look into renting a flat in Cardigan or Aberystwyth. Maybe Swansea. Whichever turns out to be less expensive."

"Sounds like you're getting it all worked out." Lyall said, nodding in approval. "Do you have any idea what you're going to major in?"

"Off the top of my head, no. I haven't quite thought that far ahead." Romulus admitted. "I do have to complete several required entry-level courses before I can declare a major, so I believe that I have up to a full year before that becomes an issue. I am thinking of pursuing a job that includes an overseas position."

"Excellent." Lyall nodded, pleased. "There's nothing like getting off this dreadful soggy island for a while and visiting another dreadful soggy island where the insects are as big as your hand and if it's not pouring rain, it's burning hot. I loved traveling." he added in a tone that suggested he did not love traveling at all.

In a rare moment of camaraderie, Romulus glanced over at his younger brother with raised eyebrows and they shared a brief smile that strained around a swell of laughter. Their father always used such complimentary language when describing his wanderlust days, but he always gritted his teeth like he might chew off his hand at the wrist if he had to visit another rain forest or untamed tropical island.

"I have no doubt that you'll get your acceptance letter any day now, Romulus." Hope said, patting his hand. "You're a bright young man with a sharp mind just like your father. I have high hopes for all my children."

"Bloody hell, Mum. I'm sitting right here." Remus reminded her.

Hope flinched. "Sorry, dear. Watch your language."

Remus saw the opening and screwed up his courage. "Actually, don't _-_ -"

"Alia, sweetie, look!" Lyall half-lunged forward to poke his finger into Accalia's pile of river stones with the kind of desperation of a man urgently changing the subject. "You have a piece of quartz!"

He plucked it out of the pile to show her. It was a piece of rock quartz the size of a thumbnail and vaguely oblong, half clear and half-obscured. It glinted in the light from the helite lamp above the table.

"Wow!" Accalia gasped. Then she looked up at her parents in utter confusion. "What's corts?"

"Quartz." Lyall repeated, emphasizing the pronunciation. "It's a crystal. Technically a mineral, but it always develops this crystalline structure. Did you find it in the river?"

"Yeah, over by the big rock that looks like a hand." Accalia replied, rubbing a finger under her nose absently.

Lyall nodded. He knew the one. "Now this is a little piece you've got here - I bet it would look really pretty in a necklace or a bracelet. We use the bigger pieces to make magic stronger."

"What kinda magic?" Accalia asked. Just like that, she was deeply interested in the topic. Whenever someone mentioned magic directly to her, it would take either the roof caving in or steadfastly ignoring her for an hour before she gave up on the topic.

"All kinds of magic!" Lyall informed her excitedly. "Quartz is the best kind of crystal for magic because it comes in all sorts of colors! Pink, blue, yellow, orange, green, even purple! Now this little guy here is called white quartz, or rock quartz. It'll make any kind of good magic stronger. If you're ever in a pinch, your wand and a hunk of white quartz will help get you out of it."

Remus tried not to roll his eyes at his father's oversimplification, if only because Accalia was clever enough to figure out the context of more academic words. She wasn't showing the same book smarts that either of her brothers had shown at her age, but she was far from stupid.

"You should keep this somewhere safe." Lyall suggested, placing the little chunk of quartz gently in the palm of her hand. "It'll give you a little boost and you might need it one day."

"Okay." Accalia carefully transferred the crystal back into her pocket.

"Put it in your memory chest." Hope suggested.

There was actually no point in keeping a piece that small _-_ \- it would be a one-hit wonder if it was put to any use _-_ \- but Accalia didn't know that. For the moment, her parents could tell her whatever the hell they wanted and she'd believe it.

White quartz was often given to young wizards on their fifth birthday. It was also a fairly hard crystal and many magical parents believed that it would bolster their child's growing magical abilities and encourage their first use of intentional magic, if it hadn't happened by then.

Remus had a piece of white quartz about the length and width of his finger, still as clear and polished as the day he'd received it. Romulus also had a lumpy chunk of quartz that he had found half-buried near the base of the tor, when they had hiked down to the river spring to have his birthday lunch. His first intentional magic, as the story went, had been him prying that lumpy rock out of the ground.

In another year, Accalia's little piece would be replaced with something a fair bit larger and more capable of serving as a conduit.

"When I'm gonna use magic?" Accalia asked her parents. One of her favorite questions to ask, along with " _what time is it_ " and " _what's that_ ".

"When you're a little older." Hope told her.

"That's right." Lyall agreed. "You've just got to grow a little taller."

It was a non-answer, though it always placated the four-year old because "a little older" could easily mean "the end of the day". But it wasn't an answer and it made Romulus and Remus share another look, this one a little tired and grimaced. Accalia was already using magic, albeit instinctively. Mum and Dad just weren't telling her that, for some reason. She had been having the usual sort of bad dreams that young children got from time to time and every time she woke up, her lamp would apparently turn on by itself. It wasn't charmed to do that. But Accalia would wake up fearful of the dark and her magic would make the helite crystal light up in response.

They just couldn't understand what had possessed their parents to lie about something like that. Was it some odd effort to protect their tiny daughter from the very thing that was so deep in her bones that it would never come out? A misguided attempt to ensure that history didn't repeat itself?

What was the point of it?

"Speaking of using magic," Remus finally saw his opportunity. "I spoke with Professor Dumbledore yesterday."

As expected, even the simple act of eating breakfast screeched to a halt. Hope set down her fork rather suddenly and Lyall just froze, while Romulus looked faintly appalled that his former headmaster had paid a visit and no one had told him.

"When?" Hope demanded.

"Yesterday, when he came by. After you turned him away at the door. I was at the mill." Remus elaborated. "It was really me he needed to speak to, Mum. He just thought it would be more polite to go through you first."

"O-Of course I turned him away at the door." Hope said, dodging her husband's curious glances. "He was just coming around for a friendly chat, Remus. But I had too much to do _-_ -"

"He got me in." Remus interrupted, nose wrinkling. He could smell the curious stink of the lie his mother was trying to spin. "If you'd stopped to hear him out, you would know that he got me in."

Lyall blinked. "Got you in to where?"

"What institution is he the headmaster of? He got me into Hogwarts. He argued with the Caucus that no one had ever tried to see if a werewolf could actually 'behave like a functional member of society', so they said if he could find an eleven-year old werewolf before the end of the month, they'd indulge him. He got me into Hogwarts and I want you to sign the forms." Remus said, all of this leaving him in a rush. He took the acceptance letter out of his pocket and slammed it down on the table for them to see. "There's a packet of information in the foyer. About how they're going to manage every month."

"H-How?" Romulus stuttered, his jaw hanging.

"How what? The monthly issue or just getting me in? Werewolves were reclassified into Being last week. That means I am, by definition, capable of understanding and abiding by the rules of the magical world. Professor Dumbledore pointed that out to the Caucus and Speaker Rowland-Gates took it as a challenge. He told Professor Dumbledore to find a suitably-aged werewolf and they would indulge him." Remus explained. "He got me in on a dare, but right now, there is legally nothing stopping me from attending from Hogwarts." He turned to his parents. "I want to go."

"You can't!" Lyall yelled suddenly, like it was a knee-jerk reaction.

"Says who? Certainly not the Caucus." Remus pointed out. "Please Dad, Mum. Professor Dumbledore didn't filibuster the Caucus for five hours and convince them that werewolves are rational thinking beings just for you to end up saying 'no'."

"R-Remus," Hope started to fiddle with her fork. "What your father is trying to say _-_ -"

"You don't want me to go." Remus finished for her. He hung his head sadly. "I understand where you're both coming from, even if I'm only dangerous once a month and Professor Dumbledore has already sorted out the particulars to keep me contained and the rest of the students safe. I just thought for a moment... I had a chance to go to Hogwarts." He heaved a heavy sigh. "Well, I guess I'm used to chances being taken from me over something I can't control. Just the shit hand life dealt me."

Remus kept his eyes turned down so he didn't see the pain and guilt that crossed his parents' faces. Under the table, however, he crossed his fingers. If this didn't work, he was out of cards to play.

"R-Remus... Language. Don't swear in front of your sister." Hope reprimanded on automatic. "And don't say _-_ \- I mean. We haven't actually said 'no' yet." she added tentatively. "I just think... I just think that we should not be so hasty and that we should take our time to discuss the _-_ \- the situation like rational people."

"Y-Yes, we haven't even reviewed the safety measures yet." Lyall agreed."I mean- Goodness, we wouldn't want to jump to conclusions without reviewing all the facts! Then where would we be? Up shi _-_ -" He glanced nervously at Accalia. "Up a ruddy bad creek, that's for sure!"

"Exactly!" Hope agreed.

Remus looked up. His father was less pale now and his mother's smile was nervous and tight, but dare he say there was a glimmer of hopeful disbelief in their expressions?

"So... Am I going to Hogwarts or not?" he asked, not quite certain what to make of their rambling.

Lyall cleared his throat. "Well, son. We should review the safety measures that Professor Dumbledore is proposing so we are certain they're up to par. It's just-" He cleared his throat again, louder this time. "Are you certain you want to go?"

"Yes, of course!" Remus said, slightly appalled that they thought they had to ask. "I wouldn't have brought it up if I didn't!"

"Sweetie, it's a perfectly valid question." Hope said gently. "I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will be incredibly thorough, but it doesn't change the fact that you'll have to disappear one night and one day every month, and sooner or later, the students are going to notice. It's going to be difficult just to keep up with your homework. And you're not much of an actor."

"I'll figure it out."

"You were vomiting up rabbit bits just three days ago." Romulus added dryly.

"Well, maybe if you had just adjusted the wards like I asked, I wouldn't be eating rabbits." Remus muttered, kicking at his brother under the table. The wards that kept him in only kept out human beings, not wildlife. Chasing the rabbits and field mice sated the wolf's instincts, but there was nothing worse than waking up after a transformation with half a pound of raw meat in his stomach.

The wolf stomach was perfectly suited to raw meat. The human stomach not so much.

And yes, he knew it was going to be difficult. The monthly transformations were exhausting and the last thing the wolf wanted to do on the only night it was free was sleep. He would have to pretend to be as normal as possible in front of the entire school. Keep his head down, complete his homework, and probably avoid making friends with anyone. He had read too many real-life accounts of what happened to werewolves who were discovered. Getting kicked out of Hogwarts would be the least of his worries.

But there were also grown werewolves who had kept their jobs and their anonymity and had made the life work for them. If they could manage in the more discerning world of adults, then surely an eleven-year old could do the same.

"I want to go to Hogwarts." Remus told his parents. "I've got my reply ready for the post owl. At this point, asking is just a formality." he added. He didn't have a reply, but it would only take him a minute to draw one up.

But they weren't convinced just yet. Both adults exchanged nervous, wary looks, considering the number of potential outcomes this scenario had. The worst-case ones always ended in death, for nine times out of ten, that was what a werewolf came to. But the best-case outcome...

"Please," Remus said, pressing on that best-case one. "Up until yesterday, I didn't have a future. Greyback took it from me in one bite. But if I go to Hogwarts, I'll come out with more options than I did going in. I'll have a wand, full magical training, I'll know enough that I could at least be self-employed. I could take commission work on my own time. If I go to Hogwarts, then I really will have a future. It won't be what you wanted for me, but I'll have it and I'll make it work."

Both Lyall and Hope opened their mouths at the same time to say something, but it was like they simultaneously realized that there was nothing to say. There was no argument left on their plates; they had used up everything. The law that stopped Remus from going to Hogwarts was temporarily suspended, an exemption made because the Speaker of the Caucus had a bruised ego.

And by all the power that Merlin had ever possessed, the Lupins wanted their youngest son in Hogwarts the same way they had wanted a world of riches at their fingertips. A vast grand dream that was improbably unattainable. Something beyond their power to make happen. Lyall had lost much of his credibility with his peers after he had failed to prove Fenrir Greyback's lycanthropy. And Hope, coming from Muggle parents, had never had any of that credibility in the first place. The world hadn't quite turned against them, but the currents had shifted just enough to make the going rather difficult.

But Albus Dumbledore was a mover and a shaker. The Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot and an altogether politically powerful wizard in the Ministry. He could work miracles that required no magic whatsoever and yet it still seemed like he had cast a spell on his audience. He had worked a miracle and he had gotten their werewolf son into one of the most prestigious schools of magic in the northern hemisphere, creating a door that hadn't actually existed in the first place.

"Let us review the safety measures first." Lyall said, slowly like he was choosing his words. "I trust that Professor Dumbledore will have everything covered, but for mine and your mother's peace of mind, I want to make sure they're suitable."

"Alright." Remus nodded. "Professor Dumbledore would also not object to suggestions for improvements. He wants this to work as much as I do."

The sudden break in Hope's expression that led to a glimmer of tears in her eyes told Remus everything he needed to know. He had managed to win his mother over and now if Lyall continued to have objections, his wife would do everything she could to cajole him onto her side. They might refrain from telling him anything until dinner, but Hogwarts was more of a certainty now.

Remus finished his breakfast with a sense of satisfaction.

* * *

The fog hadn't cleared away in the slightest by the time Remus set across the yard to take his usual daily refuge in the old mill. He did so because Accalia didn't like to go out when it was foggy like this, but when she was cooped up in the house (even by her own doing), it was only a matter of hours before she got bored. When she got bored, it was best not to be the next thing she latched on to. Romulus would likely be making his great escape soon as well; the only difference being that he would be able to go further afield.

In the flower garden, the dragon lilies hissed fiercely in the damp and jetted hot air every so often, but the ghost-bane flowers luxuriated in the wet conditions. They had grown tall this past summer, for it had been a wet one, and had spread their paper-thin, white petals wide. Up against the outside wall of the mill, the foxglove drooped forlornly.

The fog had gathered in thick soggy tendrils along the valley floor. Standing at the apex of the bridge's gentle arch, Remus could see where the edge where it scudded up the tor, extending wisps into the village. The fog swirled over the lazy river, twisting this way and that like ribbons and seeming to take shapes that held together for only a second before breaking apart. Below the bridge, the water sloshed noisily against the banks and the stone foundation.

Remus had picked up a walking stick on his way out the door and now he thrust it under the bridge where the stone met the bank. The iron tip banged off the underside a few time, but caught on nothing and there was no responding noise. He repeated this on the other side of the bridge, jabbing the walking stick around wildly into the air under the bridge until it struck the stone. The other side came up empty as well.

When you had bridges over rivers, it was prudent to check monthly for trolls.

They didn't often come around homesteads like the ones the Lupins lived on; they preferred a common bridge that people regularly crossed. Places where humans were in a steady supply. That didn't mean the bridge could go unchecked forever. It was still a bridge and it wasn't uncommon for even homesteader bridges to become temporary refuges for wandering trolls.

Frankly, any and all wizarding properties had to be scoured regularly for magical creatures, for the concentration of magic in one single area was like catnip to them. Trolls under bridges, pixies in the flower beds, wild triffles in between the walls, and small house drakes nesting under the eaves. The house drakes weren't so bad; they liked to chase the pixies and eat the triffles, so they earned their keep around the property. But triffles reproduced so quickly that two could easily turn into twelve and then over a hundred in just three months.

His inspection of the bridge complete, Remus walked around the perimeter of the mill and poked the walking stick into the eaves. The mill house had walls too thin for triffles, but the eaves were just the right size. His poking only turned up one triffle though, a small squeaking cotton ball of fluff a little larger than his fist. Triffles had spindly spider-like limbs and wide bulbous eyes that were the stuff of nightmares if that was what your nightmares were about.

The triffle tumbled out of the eaves and onto the damp ground, then shuffled quickly onto its stick-thin legs and turned around. Its huge eyes did have the additional effect of making it look wretchedly adorable. Triffles had figured this out and usually tried to cute their way into an unsuspecting wizard's good graces.

The one in front of Remus squeaked pathetically and beamed its eyes hopefully.

"Don't even think about it, puffball." Remus warned.

He reached into his pockets and found the hard little marble of Greek fire that would burn hot and quick. He hated having to kill a triffle, but if he didn't, they could be overrun by September.

The triffle squeaked again, this time in alarm, and skittered away on its toes. Remus drew his arm back to throw the marble, but he didn't get to the point of releasing when an elderly house-drake with a graying muzzle dropped out of the eaves and onto the puffball. The squeaking stopped.

"Thank you, Copernicus." Remus said politely. The drake, about the size of a rabbit, grumbled out a reply and set to work stripping the fur off the little body.

Remus left the walking stick by the door and let himself into the mill house. He deposited the marble of Greek fire into the clay dish on the other side of the door and then drew the curtains shut against the gloom. He lit the lamps, then pulled a book off one of the shelves, and settled onto the unfortunately brown couch to start reading. He had barely finished the first page when the door opened and Romulus admitted himself.

"What." Remus inquired, not looking up.

"Goodness, try and sound a little polite. You're going to Hogwarts in a month." Romulus said, hopping down the two steps.

Remus raised an eyebrow.

"Oh yes, it's all but official." Romulus assured him. "You've got Mum and Dad arguing over what your wand-core is going to be and whether or not it means anything for your House, so I rather think you've shoed-in. Well done, baby brother." he added approvingly. "Excellent use of logic and guilt over the breakfast table. There might be a little bit of a snake in you after all."

"Hmm, I've always looked like shit in green." Remus commented.

"I'd hate to inform you of this, but you're not much like a Ravenclaw. Your study habits are too disorganized, but you don't birdwalk like a Ravenclaw. In the same vein, you're just too grumpy to be a Hufflepuff." Romulus concluded. Hufflepuffs, in his experience, were universally friendly. Also, his little brother wasn't much of a team player, which was something the Hufflepuffs valued.

"So that leaves me a Gryffindor."

Romulus snorted. "I fucking hope not."

"I don't know why you think I have the potential to be a Slytherin. One of us is going to have to complete the set and everyone says Accalia is like Mum." Remus pointed out. Because if he got into Gryffindor, the Lupin family would be a full set. Lyall had been a Ravenclaw, Hope a Hufflepuff, and Romulus a Slytherin.

The former Slytherin in question clicked his tongue in a tutting manner and strode forward to seat himself on the industrial spindle. He always strode; there was just no other word for the manner in which he walked. Seven years in the House of the Serpents and Romulus had come to embody the defining traits in addition to others he hadn't originally had. Slytherin was the House where most of the Wizarding Nobles were collected. The old family names like Carrow, Nijjar, Kress, Rosier, and Addair that had been around for over five hundred years. One couldn't enter into Slytherin and not come away with the uncouth mannerisms ironed out.

"Accalia is four years old and right now she is a bundle of somewhat selfish impulses defined by whatever shiny object has caught her eye." Romulus told his little brother. "She looks like Mum. That doesn't mean she is going to be anything like Mum. But you, little brother. I approve."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "You approve of me getting into Hogwarts?"

"Good heavens no! Not at all!" Romulus yelped, appalled. "Professor Dumbledore has always displayed a certain lack of common sense, but quite personally I think this one has gone a bit far! But how you convinced our parents to let you? Masterful manipulation of Mum's guilt over your situation. Excellent. Very Slytherin of you."

Remus went "hmm", not particularly enjoying the sound of the compliment.

"Frankly, little brother, I'm in two minds on this." Romulus went on seriously, crossing his arms. "You quite deserve a chance to become a proper wizard, Hogwarts and all. You're right, you will have more of a future than you had before. A Hogwarts education has marvelous sway with future endeavors. I'm proud you're taking this chance, however risky it might be.

"But you are a werewolf. And there might never not be a time when the full moon isn't dangerous for you and everyone around you."

Remus went: "ugh" with great feeling. "I know." he grumbled, glancing absently towards bottom of the page. "I've known it for seven years. Everyone's told me over and over and over like it's my fault I'm a damned werewolf. But I made Bluehallow work so I can make Hogwarts work-"

"Bluehallow was a day school, little puppy." Romulus pointed out, while his brother scowled at the nickname. "Hogwarts boards. You'll have dorm-mates, House-mates. They'll notice the nights you're not in bed."

"No they won't." Remus said firmly. "They won't even notice me. It'll be like I'm just another ghost in Hogwarts's corridors. 'Remus who?', my House-mates will wonder if they ever hear my name. I'll be a face they can't attach a name to."

"Care to give that one a trial run?" Romulus wondered. He grinned. "I snuck a peek at your acceptance letter. Did you read the post-script?"

"There was a post-script?"

"Indeed. The Potter family out in Somerset is hosting a party of sorts, for all the incoming Hogwarts students this year, overnight from the eighth of August with a chaperoned trip to Diagon Alley on the ninth. I hear their son is starting this year as well. It's a meet-and-greet for all the new first years. I'm sure they would be delighted to have you there."

That sounds like a bad idea. Was Remus's knee-jerk thought.

But logic intruded a moment later. The eighth and ninth of August was closer to the new moon than the full. When the moon was black, the wolf was at its most sedate to the point where he could hardly feel its presence under the edges of his mind. This little party would be more for the Muggleborn students, and a scattering of Halfbloods who hadn't had much exposure to the magical world. They would benefit the most from it, so they would be the most likely to attend.

And they wouldn't recognize any outward symptom of lycanthropy. It would never occur to them that his amber-gold eyes meant something other than just an unusual color.

"I'll think about it." Remus said, settling more comfortably into the couch cushions.

"Of course you will." Romulus nodded, obviously not believing it for one second. He stood up from the spindle. "If Mum or Dad asks, I've gone to Manchester for the day."

"You can tell them yourself."

"No reason when I've got you to do it for me."

"Ah, you're not actually going to be in Manchester." Remus realized, smiling at his brother who turned a bit pink around the cheeks. "Just close enough to it that you're technically not lying."

"Slytherin." Romulus said pointedly. All the same, he grinned. "Read your book, little brother. We Lupins need to be smart enough to leave our mark forever on the school. Or rather we five-generation Newbloods need to defend our mettle against the thirty-plus generation fullbloods."

"Yes, let's agree on what really matters." Remus commented. He waved a hand at his older brother. "Go to not-Manchester and leave me be. And be careful out there. Apparate at the marker. There's too much fog on the ground."

Romulus scowled. "Now who's like Mum?"

He hitched his cloak up properly and let himself back out into the foggy morning. Whirls of mist wisped into the mill-house with his departure and disintegrated in the mill's warmer air.

With his brother's absence, Remus let the book fall into his lap and he huffed out another sigh, wishing he had taken a closer look at the acceptance letter the first time around. He hadn't even seen the post-script.

The Potters were among the oldest Wizarding families in all of Her Majesty's territories. A fully Noble family spanning nearly one hundred generations of unbroken magical inheritance. So old, in fact, that there were whispers that the Potter family's magical blood was starting to break down. The reason why there were decade-long gaps between one child and the next.

They were an old family yes, but more flexible and better at moving with the times. Or so Remus had heard from the disjointed information that had filtered down through his Bluehallow Primary classmates.

But that just meant they were a family to avoid, long term.

Remus liked the idea of this pre-term party for the first years, in theory. It would give many of them a chance to meet before Hogwarts brought them together for ten months. Let them scope each other out and make friends before the division of the House lines. On the other hand, it sort of terrified him.

But at least it wasn't mandatory.

He could wait until Hogwarts to meet any of his would-be House-mates.

Not that he was planning to make any friends. He couldn't go around making himself visible when the plan was to stay invisible.

The door banged back open suddenly and Romulus let himself back in in a gust of wind and a rain that was starting to pick up.

"Did you forget something?" Remus asked mildly.

"Yes, it would seem I forgot you." he replied. He threw one of their Muggle jackets in his younger brother's direction. "Come along, I'm taking you out for the day."

"What for?" Remus asked, not moving from the couch. His brother had never taken him anywhere before and it was strange that he would start now. "I thought you were going to Manchester by your lonesome."

Romulus actually looked hesitant for a moment. "You've gotten into Hogwarts, yeah? That's cause enough for celebration." he pointed out, scowling. "Honestly, who do you think I would be if I didn't offer up my congratulations for something like that?"

"I still thought you were going to Manchester." Remus said again, setting aside the book this time. "Do you really want your little brother intruding upon your private time with your lady-friend?"

Romulus made a face that bordered on disgusted. It lasted a split-second before he squashed it.

"Ah, not a lady then. No wonder you won't tell Mum or Dad." Remus said thoughtfully.

"Say anything and I'll have your guts for garters." Romulus warned.

Much of the Wizarding world still functioned under the law of primogeniture; that the first-born son inherited any titles and vaults in the family name. The Lupin family had no titles or nobility and only a modest bank account, but they were so freshly Newblood that they couldn't get away with acting outside of tradition. The social moves of a Newblood family were watched carefully, especially if the family expected to move up in society. Romulus, the first-born son who had rubbed elbows with many traditional and influential Noble families in Slytherin, was under somewhat closer scrutiny than usual. He was expected to marry well to another witch, preferably at least a Newblood, and carry on the family name with a son of his own.

Wizarding society simply didn't permit him the freedom to be gay.

There was just no way of telling how their parents would react either, so he was understandably reluctant to make that aspect of his life known to them.

"Anyways, Calum... can wait. I was planning to surprise him, so there was no hard and fast plan for today." Romulus said, a tad hesitantly. "I will be moving into a flat with him by summer's end, regardless of whether or not I am accepted at the Royal College, so I will see him every day for quite a long time. My little brother, on the other hand..." He tilted his head like he was stretching his neck. "Family is important too."

Remus went "hmm..." quietly.

"Look, do you want pizza or not?"

The eleven-year old smiled faintly and grabbed the jacket.

* * *

-0-

5-20-19: Minor edits made for spelling/adjusted continuity.

*the word "birdwalking" used in this context is a pre-internet term that means the same thing as "wiki-walking".


	3. The House of Black

Author's notes at the end.

Brit-picking is welcome!

* * *

Chapter Three: The House of Black

Quite unlike the Peaks District, it was sunny over London and at least fifteen degrees warmer, thanks to a flashbang heatwave running up from the south. It was dragging a weather front behind it, so the local meteorologists didn't so much predict the possibility of a thunderstorm to follow, but rather they _knew_ there would be a thunderstorm to follow.

One always did, you see.

The warm July sunlight shone down on the London neighborhood of Islington. It was far from the affluency that had once elevated it above London's rubbish. That pedestal had crumbled, returning it to being part of London's rubbish. The Upper Street had fallen to the criminals and the prostitutes and the drunkards in the eighteen-eighties and the neighborhood had only declined from there. It was derelict and dirty now, the streets chipped at the edges. Where the store-fronts weren't empty, the windows were cracked or papered over or occasionally barred to discourage any more rock-chuckings. Some shop keepers kept a nice little gun under the counter by the registers; others had a rifle mounted on the wall behind them. It was not a particularly safe neighborhood; not a place where kids should be raised but that happened anyways.

Islington had also taken heavy damage from the German blitzes during World War Two, destroying over thirty-two thousand housing units. Low-rent council flats had sprung up all over the neighborhood practically overnight, in a well-intentioned effort to get people residing in the beleagured neighborhood once again. But the low cost of living had brought in a distinctly lowbrow type of renter who was more likely to chuck his empty beer bottle at the hole in the wall to make it bigger and complain about a shit flat, than he was to actually fix his shit flat and make it less of a shit flat.

But some of the beautiful Georgian terraced houses remained and one notable area was a square called Grimmauld Place.

Grimmauld Place stood out in people's memories simply for the fact that no one could quite stumble into it on purpose. This upset the ambitious middle-class who wanted a piece of the Georgian houses at an obscenely low price. They always managed to take a wrong turn or completely overshoot. No amount of map-checking and direction-getting would ever deliberately bring a person into Grimmauld Place the first time around.

Moreover, it happened to groups of people quite often. When the house-hunters traveled in packs, they could prowl up and down Caledonian Road all afternoon, but they could never find that wrong-looking side-street and usually ended up in a weird little pub that they hadn't seen until they'd near hit their head on the low-hanging sign. But a solo explorer could find that side-street, as long as they kept their eyes on something other than where they were going.

Grimmauld Place only seemed willing to admit one person at a time.

But while Grimmauld Place seemed unusually difficult to find when you were actually looking for it, there wasn't much to see. The centerpiece was an overgrown park half the size of a regulation basketball court and things chittered ominously in the tall grass. The terraced houses were old and most of them were unoccupied. As such, with no one to maintain them, they had lost their splendor. The brickwork had gone dull, the wood trim showed termite whorls, and any paint had chipped right off. Here and there, the brass numbers on the houses had slipped sideways and the hedgegrows had gone ragged with neglect.

Provided that one successfully arrived on the narrow run-down street, they would experience the urge to leave just as quickly. Anxiety would prickle at their spine and they'd feel something akin to cold air breathing down the back of their neck. Some would claim to have seen shadows slide strangely in the narrow spaces between the houses, or slip from tree to tree in the courtyard. Something dark and undefined, following them as they moved along the street. Always, a nameless sense of dread would grip them until they had no choice but to double-back and make a sprint for the exit.

Those who had found the square and had shared their experiences noted a single common factor: This anxious, unpleasant feeling always intensified after the discovery that the houses were mis-numbered.

That number twelve Grimmauld Place did not appear to exist.

It disturbed the house-hunters in a way they could not rightly explain, but that sense of dread and unease drove them away before they could start searching for any explanation.

With a good reason, for number twelve Grimmauld Place was the residence of the London branch of the Black family. Orion Black had raised every anti-Muggle ward ever created, and a few he had made up out of sheer determination, to keep the dirty filthy crawling rats away from the house of his fathers. The dreadful anxiety that a Muggle experienced was the mildest of the lot.

It had been over a decade since the last Muggle had gotten close enough to spot the human bones in the neighboring yard. In the same breath, it had also been over a decade since the wards had killed the last Muggle.

The Black family was defined in the Wizarding world as "Old Nobility", meaning they could count back over fifty generations of unbroken magical inheritance. This lofty title presumed that the line had produced no Squibs. Of course, Old Noble families like the Blacks would simply _die_ before admitting to the possibility that Squibs were such a thing that could happen in their family tree. They touted their family motto "Toujours Pur" like it was not just a banner, but a birthright. A child of the Black family would be a child with the most powerful of magicks. They just could not conceive an alternate outcome.

There was a great deal of pressure on the heirs of families like the Blacks, to make a good marriage to a fullblood witch and bear a suitable son. Ideally, two sons, in case the first-born croaked too soon. Daughters were fine; it was always good to be able to marry them off into a perfect family. But only so long as there was a son to inherit. Nothing ended a family line faster than a first-born daughter.

But before a young heir could march up the aisle to the alter and perform his most important and sacred duty to the Wizarding world, their first task was to become a wizard of great noteriety. To become a wizard worthy of a lady's hand in marriage. Most proved their worth and etched their name onto the history books in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. Where their magic was put into a crucible and forged into everything it was meant to be.

For Sirius Black, that time had come.

 _Finally._

His hands shook slightly as he took the letter from the delivery owl.

The great gray owl shifted impatiently from foot to foot while he slipped the envelope out of the leather mail pouch on its back. Once Sirius's trembling fingers had re-secured the snaps of the pouch, the owl fluffed its feathers and then took flight, winging out through the owl slot in the top-floor conservatory.

Sirius didn't need to see the wax seal to know where the letter had come from. The owl had brought the letter straight to him instead of depositing it in the mail slot on the other side of the roof. He was the recipient and he knew this was the only letter that would ever come directly to him instead of being routed through his parents first.

He broke the wax seal and took out the letter.

 _Dear Mr. Black,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment, to be purchased at Diagon Alley in London._

 _Transportation to Hogwarts has been arranged through the Hogwarts Express. Please arrive on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station in London by 9:00 a.m on August the 25th. The ticket is enclosed. If you happen to miss the train, please step to the street-curb and summon the Knight Bus. The Knight Bus will transport you to the next station for pick-up._

 _We look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Rosemary Morningstar_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

 _P.S.: You are cordially invited to attend a fete hosted by Lord and Lady Potter on the eighth of August on their estate in Somerset, for all incoming first year students. Details enclosed._

If Sirius hadn't already been sitting down, he would have sunk into the nearest chair just to catch breath that he hadn't lost. His heart thrummed in his chest from nerves, both excited and anxious. He had known that Hogawrts was in his future. He had known it from the age of three, the moment he had set the tablecloth on fire during Christmas dinner, after Bellatrix had stolen a large bite of Christmas cake from him. His first burst of accidental magic. The family elders had praised him for weeks. _'Fire in his soul, this one! A powerful mage for sure, to make fire on his first try!'_ they had all declared in boisterous tones.

Sirius had been reminded of this over and over throughout his childhood, knowing that it was a sure fact. Blacks had attended Hogwarts for generations. In the family manor out in the countryside, there was a long corridor of just their school portraits. Black after Black, aged seventeen or so, clad in the green and silver of Slytherin House and draped in the trappings of those graduating with distinguished honors.

These days, it was all his parents spoke about in his company.

But the school had never seemed to be than just a nebulous figment of his fever dreams. Hogwarts was something his cousins gossiped about when he was out of the room, squirreling away their textbooks and summer homework like they were concerned he might learn personal secrets. There had been nothing truly _real_ about Hogwarts, for all that everyone seemed determined to keep it all from him. The moment of departure had always seemed so far away that Sirius wondered at times if he had managed to make it up.

But here the letter was, in his hands. The parchment crinkled. It smelled like ink and owl feathers. The quill had smeared slightly on several words. The blue curling letters gleamed in the sunlight coming through the windows overhead. It was real and he was holding it.

He had been waiting for this day for so long.

The conservatory door gave the creak it always gave when someone opened it too wide and, thinking it was his mother, Sirius shoved the Hogwarts letter into his pocket. He wouldn't be able to keep its arrival a secret for very long, but just for a few minutes, he wanted to be the only one who knew about it. He managed to compose himself into a calm neutral bearing; the perfect fullblood mask that he had spent eleven years practicing. It wiped away all traces of emotion from his expression. It displayed no weaknesses that his parents could exploit.

"Boy! Boy, where are you?" demanded a nasally pitched voice that most certainly did not belong to his mother. Walburga Black, for her many and varied faults, _did_ address her first-born by name.

It was Estelle, his nanny.

Sirius stayed exactly where he was, in the cushioned chair that overlooked the expanse of London that sprawled out beyond Islington. It had once been a village on a hill. While not a very steep hill, he could still catch glimpses of the River Thames.

"Boy, come here or you shan't get the biscuits Ms. Flores made!" Estelle said, her tone whining.

Sirius rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe that the nanny still expecting him to come the moment she called or she'd deny him biscuits. That might have worked when he was four and through Estelle was the only way he could get the chocolate treats, but he was _eleven_ now. He had long since found his way past the child safety charms to snitch a baked good or two from the kitchen.

"I haven't got the patience to wait on you!" Estelle snapped, stomping forward away from the door. "If you don't come right this instant, I'll _-_ -"

"Hex me?" Sirius interrupted at last, turning around in the chair to shoot a lazy, weary glare at his nanny. "Stop threatening me with something you can't even do."

Estelle's face reddened magnificently. She was somewhere around the age of twenty-six years old with a long thin face and the corkscrew blonde curls characteristic of the Fawley family; a family classed as Greater Nobility and on the list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Which was a lie, as far as Sirius was concerned. All of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families claimed thirty-five years or more of unbroken magical inheritance, but here was Estelle Fawley. The shame of her family.

The Squib.

"Enough out of you, boy!" Estelle ordered, snapping her fingers. The motion produced the barest spark of electricity. She wasn't entirely without magic, but just by a hair. "Come along. Your mother is making some horrid noise about a garden party and she wants you presentable."

Ah yes, the luncheon hosted by the Delgado family, to celebrate their daughter's entry into Hogwarts. Walburga had ordered a new set of formal clothes for the occasion, both for herself and for Sirius. A brand-new set to "replace" the other set he had already worn through, if you believed what his mother claimed. Sirius hadn't worn through the last set of formal clothes. He had only worn them once. But it wasn't fashionable to be seen in the same thing twice at a formal outing. The Season wasn't over yet.

Sirius got up from the chair. Estelle couldn't order him about anymore; he was too old for that. But when he mother starting squawking, you'd best believe he'd hop to. It was one thing to dismiss the nanny as a pesky fly. But he wouldn't dare do the same to his mother.

"Hurry up." Estelled tried to grab him by the shoulder to hurry him along, knowing that if Sirius lagged behind even one second, it would be her who felt the flat of a hand.

"Get your hand off my person you miserable Squib!" Sirius ordered, smacking her hand sharply. "Don't touch me! You're not allowed to touch me without my permission!"

"Stop being a brat you snivelling worm!" Estelle yelled back. She raised her hand to deliver a retaliatory slap, but then her hand veered away to touch the heavy collar around her neck. Slapping her charge would put her in the coal shed with the rats. A Squib servant was not permitted to raise their hand against a Noble, and _especially_ not an heir.

Sirius knew it too. He smirked and gave her hand one more sharp smack, leaving the pale skin a bright pink. To remind her that she had a place and that was to throw herself over a puddle so he wouldn't get his boots wet. Maybe it wasn't her fault that she had been born a Squib, but if she didn't stop being so bitter and nasty about it, she'd never find another household to take her.

The Black heir marched out of the conservatory with his chin held high, shoulders down, and back straight. He made sure to look every inch the prim and proper little lordling his mother expected him to be, well before he trotted down the stairs to the next floor. Down there was the nursery, which had been converted into a school room once he and Regulus had been old enough to have their own bedrooms on the same floor.

As the oldest child, Sirius had the bedroom right off the landing. There were actually two rooms behind the door; a well-appointed sitting room that would have been appropriate for entertaining guests if he'd ever had any to bring all the way upstairs. There was a fireplace under the mantle of which flames burned at all hours of the day and night, making the room sweltering hot. It was the first chief reason Sirius spent most of his day in the conservatory or the family library when he could get away with it.

Then the bedroom proper, with the four-poster and his extensive wardrobe. All of the furniture was upholstered in dark green and light cream and there was a recurring motif of serpents that never failed to make Sirius shudder if he stared at them for too long. In the dark of night, he often swore that he saw them wiggling. In his bedroom was the second reason he didn't spend much time in his room. The Portrait.

Four feet wide by five feet tall, it was an incredibly detailed and exquisite oil painting of two ancestral Blacks. A little brass plate at the bottom of the frame named them as Adelaide and Thorold Blaca. The completion date of the portrait was given as 1170 A.D.

Presumeably, they had black hair like the rest of their descendants, but it was tucked away and hidden under caps and hats to keep the nits out. Adelaide Black must have been suffering from an outbreak of spots when the painter had begun, for her face was frankly infested with angry red pustules. In between the red pustules was unhealthily pale skin and she had dark smudges under her eyes, showing that she had not been sleeping well.

Sirius suspected that his grandcestor had been suffering from a case of pox rather than adult acne.

Thorold Black wasn't much prettier to look at, though. His eyes bulged right out of his head. His beard was so thick and scraggly that it could have doubled as a nest for a pet bird. The tip of his nose was cherry red and the rest of his visible skin was so dry it was practically scaly, and slowly peeling off in white plaques. Every now and again, he reached up to scratch irritably at his neck.

Sirius couldn't believe that so much loving detail had gone into a portrait so horrid.

Worse yet, he knew the Portrait was in his room just so his parents had someone reporting on his movements. Thorold and Adelaide didn't close their eyes until Sirius extinguished the light in his bedroom and they were awake the instant his feet so much as brushed the floor, no matter the time of night. If he wasn't studying his lessons when he was supposed to, they shared unhappy looks and cleared their throats a little too often. They disappeared just as he went for a shower every evening and sidled back in as he returned.

Sirius entered his bedroom with Estelle following properly three paces behind him. Walburga was examining the newly delivered clothes with a keen eye, judging the cut and the color for all they were worth. Sirius waited patiently just outside the doorway. It might have been his bedroom, but his mother dictated the rules.

It was bizarre, alien to see her so close to the top of the house. This wasn't her place.

After a moment, Walburga looked away from her inspection.

"Sirius, come here." she said, beckoning with one slightly clawed hand.

The eleven-year old heir dutifully trotted over to his mother's side. Walburga flicked her wand and the clothes she had been examining plastered themselves up against Sirius's body.

"The color suits you. I should have guessed sooner. You look dreadful in green." she commented.

"Then my Slytherin uniform will look make me look positively hideous." Sirius opined, looking down at the dark blue waistcoat snuggled up to his torso.

"A hard burden you will bear, I'm sure." Walburga said dryly. She touched a fingertip very lightly to his hair; so lightly that Sirius barely felt any pressure. "Everyone looks tad silly in the Hogwarts uniform, but wear it with pride. You are a Black."

She flicked her wand again and the clothes whooshed off of Sirius to go drap themselves over the dressing screen. She flicked her fingers in the smallest of dismissive gestures and Sirius went behind the dressing screen to change.

He stripped off his day-wear and pulled on a silk gray shirt with long sleeves which he tugged experimentally. They did not loosen. Rats, they weren't detachable. If he got too warm at the party, he was just going to have to suffer through it and drink more liquids.

The trousers were the same dark blue as the waistcoat and an inch too loose around the waist. He tugged on one of the belt-loops, causing the built-in tailoring charm to kick in. The waistband sucked itself in until it was a close fit, but not a tight one. He could still bend over and put on a pair of socks and the provided leather loafters.

The waistcoat was the last to go on and he fastened all of the silver buttons down the front before he stepped out from behind the dressing screen for his mother's inspection. Walburga made a motion for him to turn around and Sirius did so, turning a slow circle on the spot.

"You look the part, for once." she said, a little grumbly. She clapped her hands briskly. "March!"

Sirius's legs jolted minutely before there was a poof of displaced air and March the house-elf appeared. He was an old house-elf, predating even the odious Kreacher. He wore a crisp linen cloth that had turned gray over the years and had developed a hunchback within the last several. There was no hair left on the top of his head or in his ears. However, a fair bit still remained in his nose.

"Mistress summoned March?" the house-elf croaked, stooping into a bow.

"Fetch the mother-of-pearl plated cufflinks for Sirius, from Orion's wardrobe. And one of the pocketwatch chains. Whichever best matches the cufflinks." Walburga ordered.

"Right away, Mistress." March stooped out of his bow and poofed away.

"Dreadful girl!" Walburga snapped at Estelle, who still stood just beyond the doorway. "Come here and make yourself useful for a change!"

Somewhere between the conservatory and the heir's bedroom, Estelle's entire demeanor had changed. From waspish and bitter, to utterly servile. Her shoulders slumped and her head was bowed so far that her chin folded down over the collar around her neck. Estelle had learned years ago that she wasn't to look Walburga Black in the eye until explicitly ordered to.

Estelle hurried over, her hands clasped in front of her. "Yes, Lady Black?"

"Fetch me a hairbrush and then hang Sirius's clothes up properly. _Neatly_. Just as you were taught. If I find even one wrinkle out of place..." Walburga let the threat hang and stroked her wand meaningfully.

"Of course, Lady Black. Right away." Estelle said quietly.

She crossed the room to grab the hairbrush from its customary location on the dressing table and placed it into Walburga's waiting hand. Then she moved over to the dressing screen to retrieve the clothes that Sirius had flung across the top. A sensation like anxiety prickled down Sirius's spine and for once it had nothing to do with his mother actually laying her hands on him for the first time in seven months.

Estelle would go through his pockets and remove anything inside. She was supposed to do that anyways, but it also satisfied her nosiness and her magpie-like tendencies. She secreted things away if she found them in his pockets. Little trinkets with no substantial value, like colorful marbles or shiny stones that he had found. Things Sirius would be chastised for keeping. But she took them for herself knowing that they didn't belong to her because it gave her a little thrill to steal from a Noble heir.

She might hide away his Hogwarts letter, just for kicks.

Walburga began to drag the brush through Sirius's hair while he watched Estelle pluck the trousers off the top of the screen. He waited until she had begun to dip her hand into the pocket before he said: "Don't wrinkle my Hogwarts letter."

Estelle froze briefly.

"It came. Finally. Did they plan to keep you waiting right up until the end of the month?" Walburga grumbled. "Bring it here, dreadful girl. Don't stand there like a lump, bring it over!"

Estelle's hand trembled as she ever-so-carefully removed the Hogwarts letter from the trouser pocket. She brought it over to Walburga, the parchment still folded over from when Sirius had stuffed it in there.

Walburga snorted. "I can't read it like that. Unfold it, Squib! This should not be a difficult concept for your feeble mind to grasp!"

She whacked Estelle's hand with the hairbrush. causing the woman to stifle a pained yelp, and then resumed combing Sirius's hair as though nothing had happened. Estelle dutifully unfolded the letter and held it so Walburga could read the two short paragraphs.

"That seems to be in order. They could have addressed with your titles, though." she said. She snorted over the post-script. "Potters... Ridiculous lot. Dignity could strike them on the forehead and they would think they'd been hit by an acorn."

"We're not going?" Sirius asked. "But isn't that rude?"

Walburga pulled hard on the hairbrush like she was a battling a knot that didn't exist. The eleven-year old winced and he felt a few hairs part company with his scalp.

"Of course we shall not. The Potters are not the sort of family we Blacks should associate with. Yes, they are an Old Noble family and yes, we should be respectful to them, but that does not mean we are obligated to spend any time around them." the Black matriarch declared. "Squib, place the letter and envelope on the dressing table and resume your task.

"In any case, Sirius, the invite states that it will be for _all_ incoming first-years. Do you _really_ want to be seen with those filthy Mudbloods?"

"No, Mother."

It was the answer his mother wanted to hear, but the truth was, Sirius would have liked to go to that feté. Just to meet his year-mates before Hogwarts brought them together for ten months.

Once his shoulder-length hair was combed straight and neatly tied back in a low ponytail, Walburga pinched the cufflinks through the sleeves' buttonholes and clipped the pocket-watch chain onto the waistcoat. The end where the watch itself would have hooked on hung loosely in the left pocket. Walburga stood back and examined her son for anything she could fix. She brushed off a piece of invisible dust from his shoulder and straightened his collar.

"Finally, you look like a proper young heir." she said.

Sirius tried not to grimace.

"Come along." Walburga beckoned with her claw-like hand. "It will not do to be late."

"Is Father coming?" Sirius wondered, following his mother out of the bedroom.

"No."

Regulus was peering out through his cracked-open door, but he shut it almost the moment Sirius glanced his way. He felt bad for his little brother, _almost_. It was hard being kept inside during the summer when their lessons had ended. Sirius empathized with his brother's cabin fever, but at the same time, he got a smug sense of glee that _not only_ was he leaving the house today to visit a new place, he would be at _Hogwarts_ before the end of August.

Stuck in Slytherin, sure, with the rest of the nonsense-mongers his parents wanted him to make friends with, but he would be _out of here_.

Sirius and his mother descended six flights of stairs to the ground floor, which was always a strange experience for the eleven-year old heir. Especially do to so in the daylight with the mid-morning sun coming through the pentagonal windows on each landing. He always shimmied down on the railing in the dead of night, to avoid setting off the babysitting charms that were supposed to alert his parents if he was trying to sneak into the kitchen.

But those charms were on the stairs. Not the railing.

The ground-floor corridor was hung with crystal chandeliers that never seemed to throw off enough light. The closed doors just off the corridor led to the front parlor, the dining room, and the drawing room. At the far end of the hall was one last door that led out into the back garden and then a flight of stairs down to the basement kitchen and the rest of the cellar.

They headed out the front door, which was black and sported a bronze doorknob and a matching set of hinges. When the lights were turned out, it was nearly impossible to determine where the door actually was. Even in daylight, Sirius still felt like he couldn't find the edges of the door-frame and might veer too close to the wall. He trailed a little too closely behind his mother and kept his eyes fixed on a point between her shoulder blades so the strange illusion wouldn't throw him off course.

It was a good thing Grimmauld Place was pretty much unoccupied, otherwise a very observant Muggle might have taken note of the black horse-less stagecoach parked on the curb. The door latches were the shape of silver serpents. The hubcaps on the wheels were snake-heads. The lantern hooks were hooded cobras. Even the footman was dressed head to toe in black, his suit barely offset by the silver fastenings down the front. The entire ensemble parked out in front of Number Twelve was remarkably hard to miss. Bless the Muggles, but they did. The few curtains along the square didn't so much as twitch.

The footman greeted Walburga with a mumbled but respectful "Madam" and pulled open the door. The step-ladder lowered itself automatically. The footman offered his gloved hand to the Black Matriarch out of obligatory chivalry, never mind that Walburga didn't take it. It was simply expected that he would offer it in the first place.

Sirius climbed into the stagecoach after his mother and the footman latched the door shut. The interior of the stagecoach was somewhat less ridiculous than the exterior, but the Blacks' long history in Slytherin House showed in the abundance of emerald green, from the silk curtains on the windows that Walburga instantly pulled, to the gilt upholstery of the bench seats. The sconces on the coach walls were the open gaping mouths of some manner of snake, possibly a python. Each one held a smooth polished sphere of crystal cliryogen, which gave off a soft silvery glow.

The stagecoach set off a moment later, swaying slightly, but stabilization charms stopped any of the bumping and rocking. They would have to fall off the White Cliffs before they experienced any severe turbulence.

The Delgados lived down in Kent, east of the City of Canterbury. The exact location couldn't be mapped and proud fullbloods like the Delgados lived as far from every Muggle village as they could manage. It would take about an hour to get there.

Walburga made a tiny coughing noise. "Sirius."

"Yes, Mother?"

The Black matriarch didn't respond right away, but instead adjusted the drape of her skirt so it fell more evenly around her ankles. Even sitting down, she was the image of Noble haughtiness.

"Your Hogwarts letter has come." she said. "Do you know what this means?"

"That I am now to have the privilege of carrying our house on my shoulders." Sirius replied, repeating the one thing his father had shouted at him time and again.

"Precisely." Walburga nodded primly. In her lap, she folded her hands over one another. "In one month's time, you will join with the ranks of your esteemed peers in Slytherin House. They are already familiar with our family through Druella's daughters, but they have yet to meet the heir. The future of the House of Black. The first impression you make will be the most important first impression you will ever make.

"Your first month in Hogwarts will be especially crucial to the formation of trusted peer groups and the forging of connections to exceptional future allies. The Black family has never been without its closest companions. You will not be there just to hone your magic, but to plan your future.

"You will be joined by a fine crop of Noble heirs, including the Delgado's eldest daughter." Here, Walburga managed to peer down her nose at her son despite never moving her head. "Yessenia Delgado will be expected to make a good marriage, like many of her peers. Do not permit her to pressure you."

Sirius scrunched his toes in his boots in lieu of frowning. A good marriage and the birth of a son were considered the two most important things he would ever do with his life, according to both of his parents.

But he was _eleven_.

No one in his social circle really started worrying about marriage contracts until sixteen, when the bride and groom could legally consent to the union. It was ridiculous, in his mind, to start concentrating on that thing now.

Besides, Sirius did not _want_ to get married.

"The young Mistress Delgado will be joined in Hogwarts by Lady Remi Chenault, Mistress Alexandra Moon, Madam Damaris Boice, Madam Orianna McQueen, Madam Pascaline Yu, and... ahem, Madam Stormy Sinclaire."

Just from the way she had hesitated before the last name told Sirius that she Did Not Approve. The Sinclaire family was a good family, but they were nominally Hufflepuff and Mother Black simply Did Not Approve of Hufflepuff. Nothing was wrong with Hufflepuff of course, but they, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor were comprised of a different caliber of wizards that the Blacks did not associate with.

"I realize that this list is rather lacking, so it is vital that you move quickly to secure allies within the families. You do have the fortune of being one of the few Old Nobles in the upcoming year. It sets you apart. Use it to your advantage." Walburga instructed. She expected no less from him after all. "If you _must_ , you may seek those of a lower standing. The likes of the Glassier, Kofini, Valenzula, Cunningham, and Finley will make respectable enough brides for a Black."

Respectable because Clan families were always desperate to marry up - to increase their standing in the Wizarding world. They gained greater privilege if they married into a higher family.

"What about the Hayashi family's daughter?" Sirius asked, realizing that that list of girls had been missing that particular name. "Ray... Reika Hayashi. She's an Old Noble and she's starting at Hogwarts this year."

"Heir." Walburga corrected tightly. "The Hayashi family is matrilineal. Daughters inherit. Your son would get nothing. She'll marry a Mudblood with nothing to lose, the same as her mother, mark my words."

 _That sounds perfect._ Sirius thought, if for no other reason than that his mother didn't like it.

He knew nothing of the Hayashi family except what little he had seen of them in public, but he didn't think any marriage proposals would be handled any differently. Tradition dictated that Sirius should be the one doing the asking and certainly it would only be polite to inform her that he was interested in a diplomatic arrangement. It wasn't something he would have to worry about for another five years, but perhaps if he locked in a proposal now, it might make his parents less inclined to set him up with someone else in the future.

Either way, the young Lady Hayashi would also be expected to make a marriage to someone of full magical birth. But the patriarchal priority of the Magical world meant that no Noble-born wizard with any significant status would dare marry a witch whose status would be above theirs. In short, if Lady Reika Hayashi was pressured to marry equal or down one, she would be short on options. That left a lot of room for Sirius to make a move, if it came to that.

"As I do not have access to the Delgados' guest list, I cannot be certain who of those families will be in attendance. Certainly not the Sinclaires, though, and very few of the Clan families. That I can be sure of." Walburga stated. "Nonetheless, there will be witches your age there. There will also be dancing."

Sirius tried not to groan.

"Do not make that face, Sirius!" Walburga snapped. "I know it is not your favorite activity, but you must endeavor to put forth the necessary effort. Until you have something of your own to boast about, dancing is your social currency. It is time to start thinking of your future. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother." Sirius nodded. He groaned inwardly all the same. He was terrible at dancing: the waltz, the foxtrot, the quickstep. All the forms of ballroom dancing that a young Noble like he was expected to know and execute acceptably.

It hadn't helped that his dance teacher had been a one hundred and twenty-nine year old witch a foot and a half taller than his seven-year old self. She had smelled like mothballs and Sirius had managed to accidentally dislocated one of her fingers while she had been showing him proper hand placement. He had panicked, but the old bat had simply popped the finger back into place and commented that it tended to come out nowadays. Sirius had spent the entire four-month course worrying that the elderly witch was going to fall to pieces in the middle of a lesson.

"Sirius." Walburga's voice snapped, drawing his attention back to the here and now. "What rank is the Delgado family?"

"They are Greater Nobility." Sirius answered. "They have over thirty-five generations of unbroken magical inheritance in their family tree, but they are not a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"How are you to address Joaquin and Valentina Delgado?"

"As Lord and Lady Delgado."

"How are you to address their daughter?"

"As Mistress Delgado. Unless invited to do otherwise."

"They have two young sons, Dante and Rafael. What is the correct form of address for them?"

Sirius tilted his head. "Who's older?"

Walburga smirked. "Rafael. What is his form of address?"

"Master Delgado. The younger son is addressed as 'Sir Delgado'."

"Correct. And yours?"

"Young Lord Black."

"And what do you not permit?"

"I do not permit anyone lesser than me to address me informally. I do not permit any slight against my person or my family. I do not permit those below me to hold power over me."

"Very good." Walburga croaked.

The words did not warm Sirius any, because they were not words of praise. Just an affirmation of what he already knew. The proper forms of address had been drilled into his head since toddlerhood, though he'd had little occasion to use them. His mother was just making sure he hadn't forgotten them.

"The Delgado family is lower in rank than the Black family. This means, Sirius, that Mistress Delgado is not your immediate peer. You are not obligated to speak to her until her parents have introduced her to you." Walburga said. "Once you are introduced, you will greet her like a gentleman. She is not permitted to ask anything of you. You are permitted to refuse any of her requests, regardless of her position as the host's daughter."

Once again, the old witch managed to look down her nose at her son without moving her head.

"You hold the authority and the power in any interactions with the other children. Do not forget that."

Sirius nodded. "I won't, Mother."

How _could_ he forget? His mother wouldn't let him.

Sirius had a feeling that lectures that reminded him of the superiority of the Black family were only going to increase in frequency now that Hogwarts was an ensured thing.

Now that his parents had something of note to talk about.

The coach swayed on through the journey. Walburga eventually removed a leather bound book from a side-pocket in the carriage and began making important notes on something or another. It was a very large book and it sat cumbersomely in the woman's small lap. Sirius had seen that book hundreds of times before. A thousand times, or millions if he was so bold to make such a high estimate. It seemed permanently attached to his mother's side, never more than a step out of reach. She had probably charmed it like that.

Sirius didn't know exactly what was in the book. His parents always told him that was none of his business and Uncle Alphard had simply said _"Everything!"_ in a would-be mystical tone. Uncle Cygnus, oddly, had been a touch more forthcoming with the information that every Noble Lady had a book like that. Sirius assumed that it was indeed everything his mother needed to know about the places she went and the people she interacted with. All of their social strengths and weaknesses, their social connections, maybe even their favorite foods and the way they took their tea. Anything she needed to know to make her look like the omniscient and accommodating hostess.

Sirius tugged aside the green curtains to watch the countryside roll past. The route kept them away from Muggle roads and their roaring motor vehicles, following what the Muggles suspicioned were fairy paths. They skirted around every town and village in the way, but occasionally trundled through a farmer's field. He caught glimpses of the buildings as the stage coach blew by and even briefer glimpses of what it looked like down the roads.

He wondered what would happen if the coach went _through_ one of the Muggle villages instead of around it.

Theoretically, not a thing. There were various charms on the carriage that kept it hidden from Muggles, layered over one another so thickly that removing them all would be like peeling off the rind of a particularly tough orange.

Muggles were generally kind of dumb when it came to magic. They had been told over and over that it wasn't real, it didn't exist, and so they eventually believed that whole-heartedly. So that was the angle that magic took. It encouraged to think that nothing unusual was going on, playing off the mind's amazing capacity to trick itself.

If the stage-coach had to go through a Muggle town, the magic would tell the Muggles that nothing was there. At most, they might get the sense that something large had just thundered past them and they might feel the need to step out of the way, but in the end, they would tell themselves that they were imagining things. They might even feel a sudden breeze. But they wouldn't perceive of anything solid and real.

The stage coach passed north of the Canterbury and gave it a wide berth as the path turned southwards. From out the window, Sirius could see the same steel and glass buildings that also grew on the London skyline. But Canterbury's skyline was far lower in comparison. It kept in prominence the spiked towers of the Canterbury Cathedral.

Not ten minutes after the outskirts of the city had passed out of sight, the carriage began to slow to a more trot-like pace. On either side of the path, the trees had grown thicker, the branches weaving together overhead to create a canopy. Walburga closed her leather-bound book and slid it back into the side-pocket.

"Remember, mind your manners." she ordered.

"Yes Mother."

The trees cleared away on one side of the path, giving way to the sight of a gorgeous Spanish manorial house. The exterior was adobe brick, properly reinforced to handle the typical British weather. The roof was orange-red tile and it sloped to let any rain wash right off. The doors and windows were topped by half-round arches and surrounded by intricate faux-iron grill-work that invoked the imagery of two dragons. The open jaws were positioned just at the end of a row of red carnation bushes, so it appeared that the dragons were breathing fire. A cantilevered balcony on the first floor ran the length of the house, wrapping around along the sides and presumably along the backside as well. It wasn't a big house. It wasn't the biggest that Sirius had ever seen. But it screamed a sense of wealth and opulence that the older Noble families enjoyed.

The stage coach rolled up the crushed pink quartz drive to the motorcourt, making a half-circle around a centerpiece of flowers and fountains. It stopped at the front of the house. By the front stairs waited two members of the household staff dressed in serviceable black clothes and white gloves, a bit more formal than what they would normally wear, but suitable for the company of the day. They had plain blank faces like they had gone dead inside long ago. The thick leather collars were uncouth for an event like this and so had been replaced with a polished steel chain that clinked audibly when they bowed.

The servant on the left stepped forward to open the coach door. He offered his hand to assist Walburga down the step-ladder, but she slapped it away; not about to put her trust like that in a Squib. Sirius clambered out after her. The soles of his loafers hit the crushed quartz with a truly unsatisfying **crunch**.

 _I want my boots back._ He thought, missing the sturdiness of the dragonhide. His lower legs felt weirdly exposed.

"Lady Black, young Lord Black. Welcome to the House of Delgado." the servant on the right said. He gestured to the loggia at the top of the stairs and bowed again. "Please proceed directly through the courtyard. Lord Delgado awaits you in the garden at your pleasure."

Walburga nodded shortly and beckoned imperiously to her son. Sirius followed her up the marble steps into the loggia. The columns that ran from roof to ceiling had no distinct style, but on the tops and bottoms of each column was the relief of a bull. Out of the corner of Sirius's eye, he saw stone tails flick from side to side and hooves paw at the ground.

From the loggia they walked into the inner courtyard. It had red brick, the color of which about matched the roof tiles. Another fountain served as the centerpiece and the trellises were heavy with climbing vines for shade. Another cantilever balcony also ran the perimeter. On the far side of the courtyard, through a second loggia, came the soft sound of music, the gentle titter of laughter that only the well-to-do could produce, and a slightly louder rush of water like the Delgados had put in their own river. Waiting just on the other side was the man of the house himself.

Lord Joaquin Delgado was a tall lean man with dark eyes, dark hair, and fast, clever hands. He was rather good-looking in all the right ways and he wore his formal luncheon clothes quite well. As the host, he was more extravagantly dressed than his guests so he could be found more easily. He wore a short jacket in rich blue and gold, and a white shirt with a thin black necktie. Covering his lower half were tights rather than trousers (it exposed more of Lord Delgado than Sirius was comfortable seeing) and boots that barely rose above the ankle. Finally, flung over his left shoulder was a short mantle of the finest pixie-worm silk; a muted gold on the outside, but a bright scarlet on the inside. Everything was luxuriantly embroidered in every color imagineable, in swirling designs that seemed to shift on their own the longer Sirius stared at them.

"My dear Lady Black," Lord Delgado flashed a perfectly white smile. "Welcome to my humble abode. It's such a pleasure and an honor to have you grace us with your presence. The ride down from London was smooth, I hope?"

"Quite smooth." Walburga assured him. She smiled back, which did frightening things to her face. She extended a hand and Lord Delgado took it in the loosest of grips. "Thank you for inviting the House of Black."

"My dear lady, I would never dream of thinking otherwise. It is our pleasure." Lord Delgado said, and his eyes shifted down to Sirius. "Young Lord Black, an honor to have you with us today as well. And a surprise. Your parents seem keen to keep you out of the public eye, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Mother and Father have their reasons." Sirius replied mechanically.

"A necessary precaution, you understand." Walburga commented, looking at the older wizard like she was daring him to disagree.

"Yes, such a sad business that effected us all." Lord Delgado said, nodding his head. "I confess, I have not let my Yessenia off the estate without my supervision since the beginning ot the year. I have my Rafael, so my legacy is secure, but I do so adore my daughter."

"I'll be at Hogwarts before the end of the month." Sirius said. It was hard to judge if that was the thing to say right now. "It is time I begin to make allies among my peers."

"No better time than an early start." Lord Delgado agreed, nodding solemnly. He made eye contact with Walburga again. "Lady Black, if you can spare a few minutes, there is someone I would dearly love to introduce you to."

"Oh?" Walburga made a show of not looking very intrigued. It wasn't often that someone was introduced to her. She was well-connected. She knew just about everyone.

"This individual, I believe, is someone we should all become acquainted with. He has great ambitions for the future that would come to benefit us all." Lord Delgado said, beckoning her and Sirius along. He knew that he had her interest. "And he has allies among the other Noble families. The Averys and the Dolohovs, just to name two. Quite well-connected already, this young man."

"Prominent names." Walburga agreed. Neck-deep in Ministry affairs, both of those families. Powerful enough in their own right.

"Magnetic." Lord Delgado said, smiling. "He's rallied by quite a few of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. You know how hard it is to impress the Fawleys and they seem rather taken with him."

"Come now, Lord Delgado. You mustn't keep me in suspense."

"He's just over here." Lord Delgado said, gesturing to an area of the back courtyard where he had indeed installed his own small river, which ran the perimeter of the cobblestone and acted as a natural barrier between the courtyard and the green garden beyond. By the low safety wall was a group of five or six people, three of which Sirius recognized as the patriarchs of Old Noble families.

When they were in appropriate hailing range, Lord Delgado raised his hand and called out: "Excuse me!". As the heads raised inquiringly, he slipped into the group and extracted a younger man with a polite: "If you gentlemen do not mind, I need to borrow our esteemed guest for a few minutes. There is someone he needs to meet. You'll have him back, don't fret."

"Another introduction, Lord Delgado? I thought I had already shaken hands with everyone here." the young man in question protested, but he allowed the House Lord to lead him away.

"Oh, you'll certainly want to meet with _this_ family. One of the oldest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and among the most powerful that you'll meet here today." Lord Delgado assured him, as he led the young man back over to Walburga and her son.

Sirius got a clear look at the young man's face and felt immediately chilled for no reason. There was nothing wrong with it, but it chilled him all the same.

"Lady Black," Lord Delgado presented the other wizard, front and center. "I'm pleased to introduce you to the minister of the Department of Magical Education, Mr. Thomas Riddle."

* * *

-0-

Oh snap, it's Riddle-mort.

Hope none y'all expected to see him _this_ soon. In something like 90% of the Marauder Year 1 fics I've read, there one thing I kept wondering about: Where's Voldemort? Voldemort started his campaign by 1970, but in those fics, he only really gets a passing mention because one of the characters is nerdy enough to read the newspaper or something. I kind of got the idea that a lot of writers didn't really have any comprehensive idea what Voldy was doing. To be fair, I did the same thing in the earliest drafts. When I started revising, I decided on two things. First: I wanted Voldemort to behave with more intelligence and cunning and to make him into the properly scary Dark Lord whose name everyone fears even eleven years after his defeat. I wanted to show how this guy basically brought Magic UK to its knees. Second: Once he displays that cunning and intelligence, who's to say that he can't find a position that lets him go above Dumbledore's head?

I took a very different route for Sirius. Insta-Rebel Sirius Black and Sirius Black the White Sheep are some of those fanfic aspects that always bugged me. Realistically speaking, if Sirius spends his childhood surrounded by people who talk and think exactly like his parents and there's little to nothing that offers him a secondary viewpoint, he would still have these prejudices at least at surface level. Shedding prejudices like that takes time. He wonders about it sometimes and he definitely notices that some things don't match up to what his parents claim, but he's not up to the point of actually questioning it. Socially-speaking, I went full-bore Victorian and then some on Wizard UK. A high-born Victorian child is to be seen and not heard. Therefore, Sirius would be discouraged from asking questions.


	4. An Inauspicious Garden Party

I haven't completed the revisions I've been making to later chapters, but I thought I'd go ahead and post this one anyways, to finish up the little arc from the previous chapter.

I live in Bumfuck America, the Rural Town Edition. Wikipedia and Google Maps can only get me so far. Brit-picking is welcome as long as you're polite (and informative!) about it.

As always, don't be afraid to to leave a comment or ask a question!

* * *

Chapter Four: An Inauspicious Garden Party

Thomas Riddle was handsome enough to make Walburga blush.

Walburga Black, who had lost her own sex drive years ago, dared not sleep in the same bed as her husband in even longer, and seemed to have gotten pregnant twice through sheer force of will. Her face rarely performed manuevers that couldn't be defined as scowls. It had never changed colors even in anger; always the same papery-yellow tint. Her voice was a croak of an old crow's.

But when Riddle swooped into a graceful bow and took her hand to press his lips to her knuckles in a courtly manner, Sirius watched in disgust as his mother blushed and giggled like the schoolgirl she likely had never actually been.

"Charmed to meet you, Lady Black. The pleasure is all mine." Riddle said smoothly. "It is an honor to be among such esteemed members of our society."

He had jet-black hair that he had grown long and it was currently pulled back into a low ponytail, not a strand out of place. The color contrasted nicely with his pale skin and it matched his eyes, coal black with the faintest ring of lighter gray around his pupils. Like the other men here, he wore clothes that were similar to what Sirius wore with the obvious difference being the color and the addition of a tailored-to-fit morning jacket. Riddle favored the combinations black, green, and silver, and it suited him very well.

"A delight to make your acquaintance, Mr. Riddle." Walburga said in a tone that was decidedly girlish and simpering. A tone that was frankly _unnatural_ for her to make. "Or perhaps it is... 'Lord Riddle'?"

Riddle's responding smile was amused, but unreadable beyond that. "To the best of my knowledge, maybe." he replied. "I assure you, Lady Black, that I am of full magical birth, but to whether or not I could claim such an important title, I am unsure.

"My father was from a Newblood family of... extremely little note. So little, in fact, that 'onerous' doesn't begin to describe the difficulty of finding my family name on _any_ list. I'm told he was quite handsome, though, and that seemed to have been enough for Mother. My mother, however, was Merope Gaunt."

Walburga's eyes lit up. "The Gaunts? Oh my, an old-blood family indeed! Perhaps you indeed may claim the title of 'Lord'." she said thoughtfully, like she was already plotting how to find out. "It is difficult to say what status remained with the Gaunts at the time of their decline. They fell out of the public eye shortly before the turn of the century. To be honest, I wasn't aware that Marvolo Gaunt had had children."

"I believe he fathered them by way of his own mother." Riddle admitted, shuddering a little. "My father may have come from a lowly family, but I find it a small blessing that he was not my uncle as well."

"Inbreeding among families is such a terrible problem." Walburga agreed.

Sirius's eyeroll was entirely internal, because he wasn't brave enough to broadcast it. Inbreeding might have been a problem, but it wouldn't change the fact that Orion and Walburga Black were cousins.

"It's one thing to keep magic in the blood, but it's terribly easy to wipe out an entire line that way." Walburga added, bobbing her head. It made her look like a particularly ugly pigeon. "That's just how the Craske family killed themselves, you know."

"I don't believe I've heard of them." Riddle commented politely.

"Quite before your time." Walburga said, finding herself comfortable enough to pat Riddle on the arm lightly. "Valencia Craske was the last one. A Slytherin, naturally, but beyond that, the rest of us weren't sure. He was rather ugly, deformed. He couldn't speak an intelligible word, his magic was wobbly, and he had some... _aggressive_ tendencies towards the ladies that ensured his removal from Hogwarts. Fortunately, I suppose, nothing came of him cornering my female House-mates with his animalistic overtures. You can only pour so much into a single cauldron before it becomes impossible to stir, if you know what I mean."

"Oh yes, yes," Lord Delgado agreed, speaking for the first time since he had facilitated introductions. "Sometimes, you must freshen the pot, even if it means marrying below your station."

"But not too far below." Riddle added.

"No, of course not! Best to keep the magic where it belongs!" the House Lord laughed. He clapped a hand on Riddle's shoulder and glanced towards the courtyard entrance. "Excuse me, Sir Riddle, Lady Black. I'm being lax in my duties as host."

He bustled off to greet the new arrivals.

"Sir Riddle," Walburga started, taking a step closer. "How does a wizard of your exquisite heritage find himself in the lowly position as the head of the Department of Magical Education?"

Riddle chuckled. "I beg to differ, Lady Black. I hardly call my position 'lowly'. True, it is not the position I initially sought, but I could not _imagine_ being more well-placed." he said. "I had originally hoped to teach at Hogwarts, to help mold and shape the minds of each new generation. To me, there was no greater value. I am sorry to say that Professor Dumbledore did not agree with my intended path. A good man he is, but... A little blind. However, heading up the Department of Magical Education means that I have the final say in what Hogwarts _teaches_. I shape the wizards and witches of the future by ensuring top quality education.

"And speaking of a Hogwarts student..."

With that, his dark eyes shifted down to Sirius with an abruptness of someone noticing the extra presence for the first time. Walburga clasped her hands over her son's shoulders and pulled him forward.

"This is my first-born and the heir of the house of my fathers, Lord Sirius Orion Black." she said proudly. "His Hogwarts letter arrived this morning."

"Excellent." Riddle was delighted. "I enjoyed my time at Hogwarts very much. Those seven years were a turning point in my life. Fantastic, wonderful years they were. I made many friends and allies who helped bring me to where I am today and I know they will stand by me for the rest of their lives. I hope you will experience the same."

"Thank you, sir." Sirius said, not _quite_ meeting the older wizard's eyes.

"Which House?" Riddle inquired.

"Slytherin." Walburga answered for her son. "The Blacks have always been in Slytherin. Almost entirely without exception. I do confess to a Ravenclaw every few generations, but we are predominately Slytherin."

"An entire family lineage loyal to their ambitions. That is an admireable legacy, Lady Black." Riddle praised, causing the woman to puff up with pride. He looked down at Sirius. "A legacy that now falls to you to uphold, young Lord Black. Are you prepared?"

Sirius thought for half a second. The answer he should say, the one his mother wanted to hear, was 'yes'. Simple pride in his lineage demanded that he say 'yes'. But that same pride demanded the truth. If he wasn't ready to uphold everything that his family was and it all came crashing down around him, the consequences would be more than just a mild reprimand.

"I don't know." Sirius said, deciding that that was a reasonable middle ground. "Not yet. I don't think anyone _knows_. Not until they've already taken it on their shoulders. I don't want to make assumptions, sir. I think it's too early to know. I haven't had the chance to test myself against the weight of it."

He didn't add _"no one will let me"_.

They growled and lectured about the weight of their family legacy and told him that it would become his sole responsibility. But when he sought to try a little bit of it on to see how it suited him, they lectured some more about him not being ready for it.

Sirius suspected that his parents were planning to dump the full weight of the legacy on him all at once and then wait to see if he could carry it or if his knees would buckle.

His mother's claw-like fingers dug painfully into his shoulders, silently punishing him for being honest and for trying to poke a hole in the family image. In the image that the entire Noble caste was determined to uphold even if it killed them. They prided themselves on the idea that their children were strong and fierce and proud, but Sirius knew that any child in attendance today had not been seen in public in some months. Wizarding children of Noble birth were kept tucked away in the manors like fragile keepsakes and only trotted out for particularly special occasions.

But Riddle chuckled like the statement amused him and that he had read no deeper than the surface. Perhaps he had not been raised like a Noble-born child and didn't understand how _isolated_ a childhood the Noble caste led.

"An honest answer is a wise answer." Riddle said in a tone that faked warmth. "In a way, it shows that you _are_ ready to take upon your shoulders the legacy of your family. Maybe a little bit at a time, though. The legacy of the Black family is long and to take too much of it at one time will only overburden you. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

"Yessir." Sirius nodded, though he wasn't quite sure that he did. Riddle had obviously wanted a positive answer, an affirmation that his own bit of wisdom had been meaningful.

Sometimes, it was just easier to say what the adults wanted to hear.

"Good. You'll make a fine successor to your father one day." Riddle opined. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I look forward to seeing the man you become. I have great plans for the future and I hope that you, young heir, will be standing by my side when my plans come to fruition."

A chill ran down the eleven-year old's spine and fanned out across his back. Sirius clamped down on the reflexive shiver and focused on holding up the expressionless fullblood mask. It was essentially a job offer that was being posed. If he stayed the course, then this ambitious young man would have a position waiting for the future Lord Black once Hogwarts was over and done. It wasn't the part where he was being poached before he had even gotten his wand that chilled him, but something nameless that he couldn't describe even if someone gave him the appropriate words.

"Sirius, run along and introduce yourself to Lord Delgado's daughter." Walburga ordered, giving her son a small shove away. Then she yanked her hands off him like she had been burned. "You shan't be rude to our esteemed host's family."

"Yes Mother."

Sirius ducked his head briefly in the slightest of bows and then got away from his mother as quickly as he could without actually looking like he was running away. It was a breach of etiquette to send her son away without ensuring an introduction to the host's daughter and Walburga was well aware of what she was doing, but she was willing to risk it. She didn't want Sirius in her presence any longer than he wanted to be there. They agreed on that much.

Lord Delgado had brought together around fifty to sixty guests in the form of married couples and another thirty had come alone. Sirius recognized most of the Noble-born House Lords and their wives, usually by a distinct physical feature that never faded out no matter how much fresh blood was introduced. The Flint family always had a sloping browline and an underbite. The Parkinsons were a bit pug-shaped in the nose. The Malfoys with their pale hair and high cheekbones. The Sutherlands had abnormally long fingers. The striking honey-brown eyes of the Yu family to go with their very distinctly Oriental features.

Others Sirius didn't recognize and he concluded right away that they were just not the sort of people who flittered in and out of the Blacks' social circle. Lower in the heriarchy and not as prominent in the Ministry or elsewhere. Invited to rub elbows at this party because Lord Delgado had seen potential in them.

The eleven-year old weaved between the clusters of older wizards and witches who gathered around to socialize, trying to find where Yessenia and anyone else might have stashed themselves. He stayed to the edges of the courtyard and the garden, because the children would be most likely found out of sight from the adults. He caught snatches of gossip along the way.

" _-_ -lad thought he could away with it, you know! But I set him straight _-_ -"

" _-_ -nasty Muggles have been knocking around my front door again. I don't _why_ the repulsion charms keep failing _-_ -"

" _-_ -shouting about Squib rights! Can you believe it? Squibs thinking they have the right to _our_ way of life! _-_ -"

" _-_ -have to get someone out to take a look at my wards again. The town boys started chucking rocks over the garden wall; they can definitely see it now _-_ -"

"That terrible Chantel woman is at it again with the Wireless _-_ -"

"When is she not? By Merlin, that woman never shuts up..."

There were three or four wizards huddled rather closely together and looking supremely out of place at the fine party. They weren't part of the Noble caste (Clan level or maybe even Newblood); Sirius could tell just from their clothes. They weren't shabby or cheap, but the cut was a little too economic and the materials were not the usual silk. The way they huddled so closely together made Sirius think they were up to something and he couldn't help but lurk behind some nearby topiary to eavesdrop. When adults huddled like that to talk, it meant they were talking about something _interesting_ and they never did _that_ when they knew children were around.

" _-_ -just dropped dead. Not a mark on her. Have you ever heard of a curse doing that?" questioned a wizard with a walrus-like mustache, as Sirius tuned in to listen.

"It was dreadful business." agreed one of his comrades, squinting through his monocle. "She was so close to keeping the schools open. Seems rather deliberate, if you ask me."

"Come off it, Nigel old boy." said the third. He wore oversized glasses. "I highly doubt that Madam Lautzenhiser was killed by magic of _that_ sort. Perhaps she just ate something a bit funny and didn't realize it until it was too late."

"Now, now, Mister Riddle did make some noise about not wanting to keep the schools open." the monocle'd man Nigel pointed out impatiently. "Madam Lautzenhiser goes around saying that the schools stay open when Mister Riddle wants them closed and the next thing any of us know, she's dead as a door nail! And that doesn't sound wee bit strange to you?"

"Did you know," started the final man, who was paunchy in the belly area with graying hair at his temples. "That correlation does not equal causation? Oh yes, it _is_ strange that she died before she could secure the future of the primary schools, but that does not _necessarily_ mean her death was purposefully induced. And listen to yourself, young man! You're accusing an honorable fellow like Tom Riddle in a conspiracy to commit murder!"

"Oh for Merlin's sake _-_ -" started Walrus-Mustache, but Sirius didn't hear the rest.

A hand grabbed him by the elbow and he startled, thinking it was one of the adults coming to tell him off for eavesdropping. But when he looked, it was someone with wavy black hair and blue-green eyes, standing an inch or two shorter than him. He recognized Remi Chenault, the only witch his age here who could approach him as an equal.

Politely, she pretended not to notice his eavesdropping.

"Sirius, come along." she said, tugging on his arm. "We're over here."

As interesting as the adults' conversation sounded, he knew better than to brush her off. The Chenaults were an acceptable family and sported a long association with St. Mungo's Hospital, both in terms of patronage and how many members of their family worked there. They favored no single Hogwarts House over the other, making them something of a neutral party.

Sirius followed Remi along the path of the topiary and over a bridge off the cobblestoned courtyard. The stone led away through the garden and the tall hedgegrows. Amid a small copse of trees was a fancy gazebo. The firebreathing dragon theme continued with the gazebo's construction, with the bottom half made up of the dragons' bodies and their pluming firebreath serving as the domed roof. Seated inside it were the children of the Nobles, sequestered away from the luncheon for now because children were to be seen and not heard. Someone would come to fetch them before the meal was served.

Sirius scanned the group cursorily. He didn't seen Rabastan Lestrange and allowed himself a small sigh of relief. If he failed to comport himself appropriately in front of Rabastan, word would find its way back to his mother through Rabastan's older brother, who was married to Sirius's cousin Bellatrix. Bellatrix did everything in her power to make her younger cousin's life miserable. It was a hobby of hers. Sirius didn't need to give her any ammunition.

Isaac Avery was a classic Noble-born wizard in appearance. He had black hair that curled naturally and had grown to shoulder-length like Sirius's. He also wore it tied back. His eyes were striking, being partially heterochromatic. The left eye had a smear of blue mixed in with the brown.

Archibald Mulciber had straight cinnamon hair with side-swept bangs, and an eye color to match. He spent a lot of time out in what little sun actually penetrated to ground level, as his skin had lightly tanned. There was a spray of small freckles across his cheeks and nose.

Evan Rosier had been one of Sirius's approved playmates for several years now. He had curly, dark blonde hair and dark hazel eyes with hints of red. At even at the age of eleven, he was already showing a bulge of muscle in his arms and his waist had a slightly pinched look. His hands were oversized, like they had grown first and he would grow into them over time.

Tyler Barnelby was the one Sirius knew the least about. Black, curly hair and dark green eyes, with a dark brown skin tone. All Sirius knew was that the Barnelbys were low on the list of people who Orion and Walburga Black would consider "acceptable".

The last one was Gilroy Quickley, whose birth had been the greatest of scandals. His father had wooed a Squib into bed and had gotten an heir out of it. The Quickley family had been working for the last decade to recover from that. But they were prominent in the Ministry and it was vital to secure any kind of amiability with them.

Slytherin legacies, all of these boys. The chances were high that he would share a dorm with them.

Of the girls, Sirius recognized Damaris Boice, Orianna McQueen, and Pascaline Yu, along with their host's daughter Yessenia. All of the girls were on the lean side, on the cusp of growing out of the androgynous figures that were typical at this age. Also Slytherin legacies, though the Yu family had a noted bias towards Ravenclaw and Remi could just as well end up in any House.

Damaris had grown her blonde hair very long, as was customary for witches at her age, and had had it curled into corkscrews for the day. Her eyes were blue and seemed to be set slightly too far apart. She also wore a faint pearly sheen of lip-gloss.

Yessenia had long, glossy dark brown curls that flowed over her shoulders and down her back like the finest silk. Her eyes were bright green to the point that Sirius couldn't help but wonder if they had been charmed. Pink blush had been applied to her cheeks to bring out her cheekbones.

Orianna likewise had brown hair of a more impressive chestnut tone, which matched the reddish tint in her hazel eyes. Her hair was gathered in a neat mermaid braid that hung in a very straight line right down her spine. It was weaved in with strands of gold and tied off with a small stain-glass clip that had wings like a dragonfly.

Pascaline had smooth sandy blonde hair and the honey-brown eyes characteristic of her family. A Lesser Noble, but her family was somewhat in danger of going extinct. The last of the Yus, Pascaline had been dolled up to the nines. Her hair had been wrapped up in an elaborate up-do and decorated with a strand of black pearls and topped with a small hat. She wore the most make-up out of any of the girls, smoothing any flaws out of her face. She wore a dress that was more suited to evening wear and carried a small lace parasol.

But if long hair was a mark of status among young witches, then the final girl had them all beat. She wasn't one that Sirius recognized, but she seemed familiar. Like he had seen her in passing. Her haughty expression suggested she had either had a Noble upbringing or very spoiled one or both. She had glossy black hair that fell straight to her hips in a long sheet as fine as silk and dark gray eyes that sized Sirius up like a chunk of undercooked meat that she had just been served. Her skin was porcelain pale and her features were as delicate as bone china teacups. Her clothes were as expensive as the other girls and around her neck was a highly polished ruby necklace on a silvery chain. The facets caught the light and twinkled enticingly. She was a lovely girl, but the first thing out of her mouth killed any interest Sirius might have been feeling.

"Who is _this_?" she demanded.

"Watch your tone among your betters." Remi snapped, scowling. "This is Sirius Black, of the most Ancient and Noble House of Black, first-born and heir. You must _earn_ his respect just the same as ours, halfblood menace."

Sirius filed that bit of information away. Even Lord Delgado wouldn't bring an actual halfblood into this mix, so the girl was likely the daughter of a Newblood family, but perhaps one so freshly Newblood they had only just attained the rank.

"How dare you!" The other girl managed to make herself look even more haughty, thrusting her chin into the air, lips pouting. "I am no mealy halfblood with dirty Mudblood magic in my veins! How dare you presume to treat me like one!"

"We'll stop treating you like one when you stop acting like one!" Remi shouted, turning pink in the cheeks.

"You will treat me as I deserve to be!" the other girl declared, jumping to her feet. This time, she thrust her chest out, which would have been more forceful if there had been anything up there to be thrust out. She was flat as a washboard. "I do not lower myself to associate the common riffraff as you surely do! What with your low-bred attitudes _-_ -"

"Low bred?!" Evan Rosier squawked, outraged. He jumped to his feet as well. "How dare you call any of us 'low bred'! We're not the insubordinate squaw who fancies herself above her station!"

"But I've done nothing wrong!" the girl simpered innocently. "However could you accuse me of such ill manners? I have been a perfectly behaved young lady who is _certainly_ above you when it comes to refinement!"

"Stop! Stop!" Yessenia barged her way in between, grappling with something in the belt of her dress. Sirius didn't see it until she yanked it free; a wand about fourteen inches long from the hilt to the tip. She brandished it threatenly and sparks dribbled out of the tip, causing anyone standing close enough to step back uncertainly.

"You will stop all this uncouth nonsense right now!" she ordered. "This is my party! _My_ party! And you are going to stop shouting at each other like fleabitten Muggles! Behave! Behave! I will not have any of you ruining my party! Do you want our parents informed that we've been acting so coarsely?!"

The other girl went "Hmmph" and crossed her arms, thrusting her chin back into the air. Rosier squared his shoulders like he was prepared and fully willing to sock a girl on the jaw to preserve his honor. The unwritten code of conduct governing a Noble wizard's behavior frowned upon striking a woman unless they had already hit you first. Sirius wondered if slights against one's breeding and family counted. Neither of them must have been carrying a wand yet, he decided, or else both would have reached for it as a means of intimidation.

Yessenia's wand spat a handful of angry red-orange sparks like a campfire, before either Rosier or the other girl could get around to posturing at each other. Remi straightened herself assertively.

"You heard Mistress Yessenia. Back down." she ordered, in her best imitation of her mother. "This is neither time nor the place to try resolving arguments the old-fashioned way."

She glanced at Sirius, expecting him to chime in. As the only other Old Noble present, that was exactly what he was expected to do.

"You... You shouldn't be getting at each other's throat in the first place." Sirius said, trying to affect his best impression of his father. "It's unseemly, degrading, and _-_ \- and it's not appropriate behavior of wizards of _any_ birth."

It alarmed him, just a little bit, to see the others nodding their heads knowingly. Isaac Avery made small noises of approval.

"No matter how much or how little magic you carry in your blood," Sirius went on, finding his stride now, even if they were his mother's words. "It is what separates you from the lowly Muggles. To _act_ like one is to bring shame down on us all."

"Hear, hear!" Archibald Mulciber cheered.

"Well said, Lord Black!" Gilroy agreed pompously. "All of us are heading for Hogwarts in a month's time. It will be up to us of the most Noble births to set an example for the rest to follow. If we don't and they act terribly, that's on us."

"Squib-spawn." the other girl muttered mutinously.

"You shut up!" Sirius snapped, fully in the role now. "And what **is** your name?"

The black-haired girl batted her eyelashes sweetly and completely changed her posture. She shifted out of the forthright and aggressive stance, and took on something more submissive and demure, her hands folded down the front of her skirt and her expression pleasant, if vapid.

"My name is Amarande Riddle." she announced.

"Is your father Thomas Riddle, head of the Department of Magical Education?" Sirius asked. If so, it would explain why this girl had seemed familiar at first glance.

"That's correct!" Amarande said cheerily.

Yessenia glanced between the pair of them. "Do you know her?" she asked.

"No. This is the first time I've even seen her." Sirius shook his head. "But she is the great-granddaughter of Marvolo Gaunt."

 _That_ got a series of surprised gasps. Apparently, the knowledge that Marvolo Gaunt had been able to reproduce had not been common, much less the knowledge of his daughter producing a son.

"I know that family was decrepit by the end, but that only _behooves_ her even more to comport herself appropriately and _redeem_ the dignity of her family legacy." Sirius went on, aiming a pointed stare at Amarande.

The Gaunts were kind of legendary, in the sense that they had faded into obscurity in such a way that had left everyone guessing. The last confirmed descendents of Salazar Slytherin himself, but the frequent inbreeding had led them to a decidely ignoble ending.

Marvolo had been the last Gaunt to attend Hogwarts. The personal recounts of the students described him as ill-tempered, cruel-minded, and he had been expelled by late fourth year for frequently assualting the Muggleborn students. They had snapped his wand, but he had scrounged up or stolen enough money for another one. He had been implicated in several further attacks on Muggles later that same year and then he had disappeared when a warrant had gone out for his arrest. His intention had likely been to stay hidden and out-last the statute of limitations. His wall-eyed mother had been seen around Knockturn Alley a time or two before her death, but she had stridently disavowed any knowledge of the whereabouts of her son.

"Surely Salazar himself would be ashamed of the manner in which you've behaved thus far." Sirius added to Amarande, just to drive it in a little better. "Perhaps a M-Mudblood deserves your derision, but a fullblood wizard? You utter words like that around those of Noble birth? Those whose magical heritage is in no dispute?"

"You dispute the purity of my birth?" Amarande demanded, scandalized. "You argue that I am not the great-granddaughter of Marvolo Gaunt? That I am not the last daughter of Salazar Slytherin himself?"

"Would he acknowledge it after witnessing your contemptuous behavior towards your fellow wizard?" Sirius challenged. "Old Salazar wasn't fond of Muggles and M-Mudbloods, but he respected his peers. He could do better than a descendant like _you_."

"You would dare speak to me like that, knowing my lineage." Amarande hissed.

"You only come from _one_ old family and a sullied one at that." Sirius pointed out. "The House of Gaunt is barely worth the ink that was used to sign the death certificates. If your father is going to bring respect back to his mother's family, the least you could do is not make it any more difficult for him."

If the others had been any less of a dignified lot, they would have gone "ooooh" and pointed. They didn't, but all the same, they still acknowledged that Sirius had aimed low. Orianna and Damaris both put their hands together in a posh little clap. Amarande's pale cheeks began to color a faint pink.

"Sit down, Amarande. Don't embarrass yourself any further." Sirius instructed.

He wasn't expecting the haughty girl to actually listen; she seemed far too full of herself for that. But she sat down. Sullenly, pouting, acting like she had been physically harmed, but she put her butt back on the cushioned bench and crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

With Amarande finally seated and at least contemplating her proper place, Sirius turned to Yessenia.

"On the behalf of my mother, Lady Walburga Black, thank you for inviting us to your home." he said politely. "I'm looking forward to a lovely time."

Yessenia giggled, stowing her wand. "Thank you for those kind words, young Lord Black. It means a great deal to my family that you accepted the invite. I hope you've been well."

"I've been very well." Sirius replied. _Bored out of my mind these days, but well_.

"Well then, chaps," Gilroy began while Sirius took a seat at the end of the row. "Hogwarts in a month, eh?"

"I'm quite looking forward to it. Being at home all the time is becoming dreadfully boring." Orianna said, absently examining her nails to make sure the color was still intact. "Ever since last October, Mother has been very concerned that something might happen to me. I can hardly step into my own back garden without a watchdog."

"Dreadful." Damaris agreed.

"One can hardly blame our parents for a little overprotectiveness." Pascaline said, speaking up for the first time. "The tragedy of Redford was _historic_ , let's be honest. And it's not like they went after _just_ the lower caste members. The Lessers, the Greaters, and the Old Nobles were far from spared."

"Nonetheless, I could do without being followed by a house-elf two steps out the door." Orianna commented.

"Redford was horrible," Rosier started. "But I think it speaks a great deal that two survivors were Old Nobility. They'll be at Hogwarts this year and I think, out respect for their late classmates, we shan't question them about it. I can't imagine they'll be very keen to discuss it, in any case. We shall shut down anyone who tries, yes?"

He got a chorus of affirmations from everyone except Amarande.

 _Respect for their classmates or respect for their blood-status?_ Sirius wondered. He fancied that it was more the latter. If the survivors had been halfbloods or even Newbloods, he didn't think his peers would agree to be so accommodating.

Redford was one of four primary-level schools for young witches and wizards not old enough for Hogwarts, taking students from the ages of six to ten. It had taught a full curriculum of literature, maths, geography, and history with a minimal emphasis on magic. Sirius wasn't sure _how much_ focus magic was or was not given, as his parents had eschewed the idea of letting him and Regulus attend the school on the basis that the education would be substandard.

Last October, the Redford teachers had taken their entire student body out into the countryside for a weekend camping trip. One hundred and thirty students altogether. The Monday after, the fifteen teachers had been found dead at the campsite and all of the students were reported missing.

The mystery had dragged out for over two months, past Christmas and into the early days of January. Sirius had filched the _Daily Prophet_ from the bin every night to update himself on any developments. The entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been baffled. The Redford students had disappeared clean off the face of the planet, not hide or hair to be seen. The magical governments around the world had been on alert and the ports placed under watch. It was hard to move around _that many_ children without raising some eyebrows, but somehow, the captors had done it right under everyone's noses.

It was Aurors in America who had solved the mystery surrounding Redford, after investigating an intially unrelated case. Of the one hundred and thirty students, only two had been returned to their parents alive and well. The rest had been found dead with their chests torn open and their hearts removed. The Ministry had squashed any explicit details before the _Prophet_ could report on them. They had even sat on the names of the two survivors for a while, until someone had compared the student roster to the list of funerals and discovered where they didn't match.

It still remained a great mystery to much of Wizarding Britain; what had happened in the Grand Tetons of Wyoming that had led to the brutal deaths of one hundred and twenty-eight magical children, half of them the heirs and spares of Noble families. The details hadn't been released because there was so few available.

Perhaps it was destined to remain one of those great mysteries, never to be solved.

"Yes, but Hogwarts." Gilroy prompted, bringing the conversation back around to the topic he had tried to get going. "What do you think it's going to be like? C'mon Avery, your brother's already gone. Miss Boice, you've got a brother in there. And you too, Miss Chenault."

Remi flipped a lock of hair over her shoulder. "He doesn't talk about it with me." she replied.

"Neither does mine." Damaris said. "I hear that the older students don't discuss Hogwarts with the incoming first years. Tradition, you know."

"Well, buck tradition! There's no point in making us all go in and get caught unawares." Gilroy complained. He shook his head hard enough to send his thick dark red hair flying. "Barnelby, what about you, eh?"

Everyone startled and looked in astonishment at Tyler Barnelby, as though they had forgotten he was sitting among them. Between his black hair, indeterminably dark eyes, and the sheer abundance of equally dark colors he was dressed in, it seemed that he had blended right into the shadows cast by the tree.

Tyler also startled and looked up from his knees in astonishment, like he had been hoping that everyone would forget that he was there. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Hogwarts!" Gilroy repeated boomingly, as much as his voice could boom. "What d'you think it'll be like? Have you got any siblings to tell you about it?"

"Erm... No." Tyler replied, then resumed staring at his knees.

"No one? Really? You mean we'll be going into Hogwarts completely unprepared?" Gilroy demanded. He threw up his hands. "Bloody great..."

"Well, if you're _really_ your father's son, you won't be unprepared at all." Amarande pointed out, sneering. " _Real_ wizards aren't scared of going to school. Anyways, it isn't like Hogwarts isn't the safest school in the world."

"You think that?" Sirius asked, looking at the snotty girl askance.

"Please..." Amarande rolled her eyes. "If my father says it, then it's _true._ He's never told a lie in his life. You would know that if you had _actually_ met him."

"But you _really_ believe that Hogwarts is the safest school in the entire world."

"Of course I do and _of course_ it is."

"Are you _sure_?"

"Yes. I'm. Sure."

"Then you must not have heard." Sirius commented casually.

"Heard what, Black?" Mulciber asked.

"Just a little rumor or two." Sirius said. He waved a hand. "But it would be terribly rude of me to spread them around, especially if they aren't true."

He had their attention now and if he didn't impart the details, they wouldn't leave him alone. He didn't know if any of the rumors were true or not, but Bella and Narcissa had liked to talk. All Sirius had had to do was listen.

"Go on." Gilroy urged eagerly. "It's just us here, go on."

"No, I don't want to ruin the mood of Miss Yessenia's party. I couldn't." Sirius said, shaking his head.

"Tosh, it's more Daddy's party anyways. And we haven't even gotten to the opening dance." Yessenia pointed out, flapping a hand dismissively. "Go on, my father's kept his lips shut tighter than a drum."

Sirius smiled slowly, reveling in the experience of having all eyes on him, given how little it happened. He beckoned for them to lean in a little and everyone did, except for Amarande who made it wordlessly clear that she wasn't about to partake in something that she preceived as childish.

"I have two cousins still in Hogwarts. And they say the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts is cursed."

"How so?" Rosier asked.

"The school hasn't kept a professor on for more than a year, not once in the last decade. The professor in Narcissa's first year was found dead on the lake-shore. They think the mer-folk drowned him." Sirius said.

Truthfully, the professor in question had underestimated the friendliness of the giant squid and developed a sudden phobia of large cephelopods that had eventually sent him running from the grounds with a month to go before the year had ended, but this version sounded more dramatic.

"The one from last year took a stray spell right to his eye." Sirius went on, dropping his voice low. "The spell made his eye pop right out of his head, onto the floor, and then it started to grow."

"Come off it!" Avery groaned. "How big?"

"The size of a watermelon." Sirius said, holding his hands up in an approximation of the purported size. "It spent the rest of the day rolling around on its own all through the corridors before the professor got a hold of it and it left blood everywhere it went. They had to pack it in ice before they could send him to St. Mungo's to get it shrunk and put back in."

"That can't be true." Damaris said, making a disgusted face. "Honestly, if a Hogwarts professor had an eye fall out, that would have made it into the _Daily Prophet_."

"But why would it?" Sirius challenged. "It's not good for the school if the parents hear about runaway eyeballs and mer-folk drowning the professors, right? Hogwarts has _standards_."

"Hang on, but who would curse the Defense Against the Dark Arts position anyways?" Gilroy wondered. "Seems like a silly thing to do. Why, you'd never get a consistent education if that happened."

"It's been done, clearly." Amarande stated, rolling her eyes. "There's a reason Hogwarts hasn't been able to keep a teacher on the job since Professor Vondehaar ran screaming off the grounds ten years ago."

Professor Richard Vondehaar, a two-time champion in the International Duelist Kingdom Tournament and semi-retired Hit Wizard, had been the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher since Galatea Merrythought had retired at the end of the nineteen forty-five school year. He had in fact run screaming off the grounds shortly after the Easter holidays in nineteen fifty-seven, evidently under the impression that the school itself was angry at him.

"Even if no one knows _what_ the reason is." Amarande added with a _so there_ expression. "Now can we _please_ talk about something that isn't so disgusting?"

"Like what? The dead students?" Sirius suggested. He got a small thrill from the way the others made small squeaking noises of either surprise or fear and some definitely turned so they were looking directly at him.

It really was marvelous the way people just shut up and listened when you knew the best gossip and rumors.

Pascaline looked like she didn't want to ask, but did anyways. "What dead students?"

Sirius's grin showed just one tooth too many, a tad evil in a way that he had never shown in front of his mother. "You didn't hear? No of course you didn't. They would keep that one under wraps, wouldn't they."

Rosier scowled. "Answer the question, Black! What dead students?"

"Why, _the_ dead students. The ones who vanish into the dungeons and are never seen again." Sirius replied. He shrugged. "No, I'm wrong. They _are_ seen again, you know. Just... not alive."

"What are you talking about?" Amarande demanded, almost furiously. "I've never heard of this! I know _everything_ about Hogwarts! Daddy told me all about Hogwarts!"

"No you don't." Sirius said in a pleasant tone, smiling beatifically. "No one can know everything about Hogwarts. It's a magical institution. It's always changing. The magic makes it change." He widened his smile a little. "Anyways, they wouldn't dare let it be known that one Hogwarts student dies every year. They have _standards_. But that doesn't make it any different. One student every year never goes home."

It was quiet Tyler Barnelby who asked: "How?"

Sirius shrugged theatrically. "Who knows? All I heard is that they walk as deep as they can into the dungeons and they simply never come back out the same way they went in." he said. "That's why the dungeons are off-limits."

"But if the dungeons are off-limits, then how do they get all the way down there in the first place?" Avery asked.

"That's the real secret, isn't it." Sirius gave another shrug. "I'd tell you what my cousins told me, but I don't want to scare you."

Rather, they had discovered him lurking outside the door and had chased him off. Sirius still wasn't sure what unwritten rule he had broken, but Bellatrix had been furious to find him in the corridor.

Amarande snorted. "That means you don't know." she sneered, absently toying her ruby necklace. "Just like I thought. You're just showing off. You're just a sad little Noble-boy with no friends trying to impress everyone."

"You don't have friends either." Sirius said. He didn't know if that was true, but with an attitude like that, there was no way.

Amarande might have had a return volley, but she was prevented from firing when there was a familiar popping sound of displaced air and a house-elf appeared on the path just outside the gazebo. It had the usual traits of enormous bat-like ears and bulbous eyes, but it was a great deal younger than any of the elves that served the Black household. It was also better dressed; wearing something that might have been former bed-linens fashioned into the appearance of a tailcoat and trousers.

"Miss Yessy and guests, Frolly is announcing that lunches is being served." it said.

"Of course Frolly, we'll be right there." Yessenia said, dismissing the elf with a wave of her hand. "We'd best go. Father will be displeased if I, the guest of honor, keeps everyone waiting for lunch."

"I doubt they could eat, looking at your face." Amarande said prissily.

She flounced to her feet _-_ \- there was no other word for it _-_ \- and marched off, swaying her hips like a woman twice her age. Only Mulciber's eyes followed the movement, but not out of any real interest. It was such an odd way to walk; it was a small miracle that she didn't dislocate her hips with every step. Avery shook his head like he knew a lost cause when he saw one and Rosier looked rather like someone had just shoved a dead toad under his nose. The girls made sneering faces.

"Tramp." Damaris spat.

"Strumpet." Orianna contributed.

"Trollop." Yessenia said.

"Wench." Pascaline agreed.

"Hussy."

"Tart."

"Floozy."

"Harlot."

"Ladies, please." Gilroy raised his hands placatingly. "I think we are all aware that Miss Riddle _severely_ lacks the necessary manners. There's no need to drive it into the ground. She'll learn that on her own time, eh?"

"And pay for it just the same." Orianna said. "Gilroy, escort me back to the main courtyard." she ordered.

"Certainly, madam! 'T'will be my honor!"

Gilroy was like his surname in getting to his feet and offering Orianna his elbow. The McQueens's first-born daughter took it delicately and allowed Gilroy to escort her out of the gazebo.

"Sirius, will you accompany me back to the courtyard?" Remi asked, shooting a somewhat sly look at the other girls. She was Old Nobility, so she alone had the grounds to ask him first.

"Flattered, but I think today I had better be seen with Yessenia." Sirius said. His mother had made just enough noise about it. "Avery will take you, though. I'm sure he's just a right gentleman too."

Remi looked at Avery, who puffed his chest out in an attempt to look a little bigger. Her eyes swerved up and down his form and probably didn't find something appealing, judging from the slight way her lip curled. But he wasn't bad and it wouldn't hurt the Chenaults any at all to be seen with the Averys.

"Very well, but you owe me a dance." Remi acquiesed.

Sirius nodded and went over to Yessenia to offer his arm in the same way Gilroy had. Yessenia looked delighted, slipping her hand over his elbow with the same delicacy that Orianna had demonstrated. Together, they walked back to the main courtyard.

Dozens of round tables had appeared with the lunch bell. The places were set with the fine china and the good silver, accompanied by the fragile crystal glassware that glinted in the sun and created a splay of rainbows across the tablecloths. The napkins were crisp blue linen edged with gold threading. The ivory white chairs were cushioned with the finest velvet padding of a dove-gray shade that about matched Sirius's shirt. Little cards had been set before it place to tell everyone where to sit. The children had all been lumped together at one table and Sirius felt his lip curl at the fact he was going to have to share a meal with Amarande Riddle.

The guests settled into their places and then Lord Delgado stood up again. He tapped his wand lightly against the crystal champagne flute until the ringing sound had gotten everyone's attention.

"Most esteemed and honorable witches and wizards, thank you for coming to my estate this fine summer day." he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "I am pleased that everyone is in good health. Thank you to all the well-wishers. My daughter is delighted to know that so many of you wish her all the best during her Hogwarts years.

"Before we settle in, I would appreciate another moment of your time to introduce to you my guest of honor." he went on, gesturing to his right-hand side. "Please welcome the director of the Department of Magical Education, Sir Thomas Riddle."

Polite applause rang out across the courtyard, punctuated by the enthusiastic clapping from Amarande. Riddle rose gracefully to his feet as Lord Delgado sat back down, and offered a slight bow to the host.

"Thank you for the introduction, Lord Delgado." he said proprietorily, then turned to face the crowd. "And thank you all for having me. I am honored to find myself welcomed among the ranks of such influential movers and shakers in the Wizarding World. If I may, I would like to take this opportunity to say a few words in the wake of Kandora Lautzenhiser's tragic passing two weeks ago.

"Madam Lautzenhiser was a hard-working woman, extremely dedicated to her job. I could not have asked for a better right-hand to help me tighten up the department. I was deeply sorry to hear that she had passed away so unexpectedly. In the last several weeks before her death, she was absolutely dedicated to keeping the primary schools open for next year.

"I know many of you are wondering why I closed Bluehallow, Greenmoor, and Yellowpeak Academies. I know the schools were not targeted the same way Redford was. But I did so out of concern for the safety of the children. Redford Academy was a massacre and I feared that it would repeat itself in one of the sister schools if I did not take action as quickly as possible. I told myself I would not be responsible for the destruction of Wizarding Britain."

Surprise and confusion rippled across the seated crowd. Sirius could see his mother from his table and her brow furrowed, telling him that Riddle's announcement was news to her.

News to everyone else as well.

"I know it sounds extreme, but I could find no other explanation for such a brutal and unprovoked attack on our children." Riddle went on. He had their full attention now. "This year, the incoming first-years number at one hundred. This number is made less impressive when you remember that in years past, we have often seen one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty new frst-years. Of those one hundred students, fifty-two of them are Muggleborn and Halfblood. They make up just over half of the new first-years. This year, the intake of Muggleborns is the highest it has been in over a decade.

"I believe that the tragedy of Redford was a calculated strike against the wizarding Nobility of Great Britain by enemies from the inside. Not just to reduce our numbers, but to reduce the collective knowledge that would be passed along. To weaken or wipe out the inherited abilities passed down through each ancient family. We lost many young heirs to the Redford Academy Massacre. Where there would normally be ten, even fifteen Old Noble heirs attending any other year, we have just five. Eight heirs of Old Noble families alone were horrifically slaughtered in the Grand Tetons. Remember their names. Diarmad Addair. Tierney Killian. Sebastian Alcantara. Cornelieus Tarain. Uisdean Baird. Andor Kress. Laszlo Horvath. Lance Morningstar."

By the third name, the wizards had begun to join in, recognizing the order in which the _Daily Prophet_ had reported the funerals. Sirius knew _of_ all of the deceased, but he had never met any of them. The students of Redford had a tendency to go into Gryffindor when they started at Hogwarts (likewise, Bluehallow produced Ravenclaws, Yellowpeak the Hufflepuffs, and Greenmoor the Slytherins) and the Black family rather disdained the idea of consorting with the headstrong and reckless Gryffindors, even in embryo.

He looked around the table at his fellow eleven-year olds. They were appropriately somber. Gilroy had flinched when Andor Kress's name was spoken by the rumbling congregation of nearly ninety wizardss and he had then bowed his head. But the only person who didn't look appropriately somber was Amarande Riddle and Sirius didn't know why that didn't surprise him. She looked bored and impatient instead, like she was itching to get the formalities out of the way.

She was seated too far away to kick under the table.

A minute passed in respectful silence. Then Riddle cleared his throat.

"Over the past year, it became clear to me that someone is trying to destabilize Wizarding Britain by shooting at the foundation of what we intend to build. Minister Fawley is hesitant to accept this, and I do not blame him. I had a hard time believing it and I came to the conclusion all on my own." he said. "I urge everyone here to band together and to be vigilant. Be watchful. Guard you and yours carefully. Someone has the gall to target our children, ladies and gentlemen. As a father myself, this horrifies me beyond measure. My children are my gifts to the world, my immortal legacy."

Here, his gaze moved visibly across the crowd to focus on Amarande and he favored he with a fond smile. Amarande waited until most of the eyes in the courtyard had settled on her before she smiled sweetly and waved to her father. The assembled wizards and particularly the witches murmured in approval.

"Our children are the future of magical Britain and we must safeguard the legacy they will carry forward in the wake of the Redford Tragedy." Riddle went on passionately; he was really into it now. "I do not know who would do such a despicable thing and attack innocent children, but I have my suspicions. Those children were all of strong magical inheritance. And who in our world lacks that background?"

"Mudbloods!" someone shouted.

"Yes. Mudbloods." Riddle looked victorious and a tad bloodthirsty. "They who lack the rich cultural heritage of our world. Those who interlope into our society under the false impression that they belong. They who become angry when they find that there was never any room for them in the first place.

"Mudbloods believe we shut them out when they don't realize that they never belonged. They get angry with us for something we cannot change. They are striking back now, but like cowards they cannot face us directly. Instead, they must attack our children. Our children! Our innocent children who are too young to yet understand the evils of the world! And they do it to teach us a lesson!

"But the lesson _we've_ learned is not the one they intended to teach us. The Redford Massacre has taught us that we can no longer stand idly by and let these Mudbloods do as they please. They must be _expelled_ from our world! They are a danger to our children and the future! A danger to our legacies! If we do nothing to stop them, they will expose us to the rest of the world and treat us like an open wound! To protect _our_ world, we must cut out the infestation of Mudbloods and the Muggles who bore them! We must learn how to wield the iron sickle if we are to survive!"

As Nobles, they were nominally a sedate crowd, but in the wake of Riddle's impassioned fear-mongering, the witches and wizards practically screamed out their approval, slapping their hands together in applause and thundering their fists on the tabletops. The cutlery and the fragile dishware rattled.

Across the table from Sirius, it was Amarande who looked on with an expression of savage triumph; a sharp contrast to the rest of the children who didn't seem to have any clear idea what Riddle was talking about.

"Sirius?" Remi leaned in towards his ear so she could be heard. "What's Mr. Riddle saying?"

Riddle raised his arms like he was welcoming them all to the fold and tipped his head back so the summer sun highlighted his handsome features and glazed across his dark eyes. For a second, they shimmered blood-red.

Sirius gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles and shivered.

"I don't know." he said.

* * *

-0-


	5. Cokeworth

Author's notes at the end, as usual. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Five: Cokeworth

Mr. and Mrs. Evans, of number seven, Weavers Street, were pleased to say that they were normal, thank you for noticing. They had never expected to be involved in anything strange and unusual, for nothing of the sort had ever happened to them.

Mr. Evans had a rough weathered face and rough weathered hands hardened by difficult work and long hours that he faced with a cheerfulness so absurd it could be mistaken for delusion, except it had a backbone of steel work ethic that any northerner living just shy of Manchester could expect to have. Mr. Evans didn't have any reason to believe that his life could be worse. He had grown up in _worse_. His childhood had been the second World War and never-ending cycle of food shortages, pinched faces and pinched bellies, and frantic radio announcements about whose army was invading which country this time.

His adult-hood was comparatively prosperous. There was no war to loom on the horizon like boiling storm clouds. He made enough money to keep food on the table, clothes on his family's back, and a roof over their head. He worked down at the steel factory, previously a textile mill until it had been bought out and re-fitted. Mr. Evans worked in a supervisory position, in which he fixed the buggy machines, strolled the factory floor looking for safety hazards, and shouted at people to get back to work.

He had grown into a well-minded man with a dependable work ethic. Who believed in getting his hands dirty and other things that made a man out of a boy. He despaired a little that he didn't have a son, but his wife had had two dodgy pregnancies that would make a third more of a hazard than either of them would like. But in his mind, his daughters were precious and he wouldn't dare trade them for the world.

Like her husband, Mrs. Evans had grown up against the backdrop of the Great Depression and World War II, living in another little village that was quite a bit like Cokeworth. A steel factory had loomed over her little town and she liked to think the metal shavings had reinforced her spine, to make her stronger and more resilent and more determined to carry on like any good Englishwoman. She had come out the other side of the war with a strong drive to provide her children with a better life than the one she'd had growing up. Comparatively speaking, she had accomplished just that.

But Cokeworth was just a small factory town, slowly crumbling at the edges. In the grand scheme, it had never been particularly prosperous. It was also home to a coal processing plant and a sludge-works that put all manner of unpleasant smells into the air. It was small, gritty, and smelled strongly of industry even when the wind wasn't blowing.

The river was almost horrifically polluted, alternately gray and orange on the good days. It was almost more scum than water, some claimed. No environmental agency had yet found their way out to Cokeworth to shout about the frightening state of their waterway. Despite the atrocious smell that emitted from it when the weather got warm and the fact that several fish seemed to have three eyes and several tails apiece, the residents didn't seem terribly arsed to do anything about it.

Cokeworth was depressing. There was no other word to adequately describe its atmosphere. It was depressing. A perpetual gray haze seemed to hang in the air no matter how bright and blue the sky got. The state of the river turned the grass odd and unhealthy shades along the bank. There was a rather noticeable lack of green grass. The bushes were scraggly and the trees were bony and they never quite seemed to put their leaves out until at least mid-June. The flowers hardly ever blossomed and when they did, their petals were dull and they seemed to droop as if weighed down by the dust on the wind.

The adults were complacent with the arrangement and no one expected them not to be. At times, they almost seemed peripherally aware of the world beyond their noses. Once in a while, they frowned at the house that was missing bricks from its face. They muttered about the broken windows all up Spinner Street and seemed to take affront about the wobbly merry-go-round at the playground for someone's child was going to get hurt on it one day. Sometimes, they blinked and for a split second, they realized that Cokeworth was hardly the Life After The War they had been promised. But then, like a switch had been thrown, they shrugged it off and put on the kettle and told themselves once more that this was _okay_.

But for every child in Cokeworth, their dream was to _get out_ of Cokeworth.

It was a hard dream to accomplish. There was something about Cokeworth that sucked its children right back into the fold, just like the sticky tar they used to re-seal the roads every spring. Getting out of Cokeworth for good meant being able to leave it in the first place and for many of its residents, the future proved to be too expensive. It left an ambitious child almost desperately angry and bitterly desperate, willing to do _anything_ to escape the little village and its foul air. The village constabulary had officially closed the case on the missing Roger Felty, but once a month, they poked long poles into the river. Just in case.

The story truly began with Mrs. Evans and her cozy little tea shop just off High Street. She had opened it just a little more than a year after her marriage to Mr. Evans, after her belly had shrunk form her first pregnancy and the post-partum bleeding had tapered off. The little shop was described as charmingly rustic and served coffee, all manner of English teas, and an array of baked treats, fairy cakes, crumpets, and little finger sandwiches.

Mrs. Evans saw the same variety of customers every week. On Sundays, the church ladies came down in their ridiculous hats to sip tea and nibble on the finger sandwiches and swap the latest Cokeworth gossip. The older men liked to sit by the fireplace with a cup of strong coffee and read the newspaper or discuss the latest in sports. Young lads brought their ladies to the shop as part of ongoing efforts to woo them and Mrs. Evans always made sure those young couples had the best service she could offer. The only _true_ variety came in with the lorry drivers who had gotten turned around on the barely-marked country roads on their way into or out of Manchester. They always got a coffee and a toasted sandwich to go with their directions.

It was a rather miserable Saturday when something perfectly unusual happened to Mr. and Mrs. Evans. In retrospect, they would realize that this unusual thing had been coming for some time now. It had just been a matter of when it would catch up to them. It was just that they had hardly bothered to pay attention even to life _inside_ Cokeworth. And sometimes, what was going on under their own roof didn't merit a second glance.

There was a cold wind blowing out of the north, carrying a spritzing rain with it that was inexorably giving birth of a light mist. This was a day to stay inside and Mrs. Evans's tea shop remained relatively empty. It was just her very dedicated regulars today. Mr. Bosworth always came for his hot cocoa and a warm croissant and the newspaper. Mrs. Angstrom, the head of the local crafts club, took her usual seat by the fire and her usual order of tea and sandwiches and crocheted wooly socks. And old Ms. Halsey who spent an afternoon playing Go Fish against herself and pouring entirely too much sugar in her coffee.

Being unseasonably chilly for the middle of summer, Mrs. Evans didn't think too much of it when her next customer hurried in out of the damp wearing what appeared to be a hooded cloak.

"Have a seat anywhere, luv, I'll be with you in a minute." Mrs. Evans called. She was hardly busy at all, but there were always numbers to tally up. She always took advantage of the slow days to do inventory of the back room and properly tally up the week's profits.

Mrs. Evans had reached the end of a column by the time her new customer had settled in a chair. She laid down her pencil, gathered a menu and the silverware wrapped in a napkin, and went to greet her customer.

She was an odd young lady to look at, this one. Like she walked straight out of the height of London mod scene. Her hair was cut far shorter than any respectable lady oughta have it and her eyeliner was a bit too heavy. Her checkered skirt was shamefully short (it wouldn't even touch her knees standing!) and the blouse was a bold, solid orange. The color contrasted sharply with the Kelly Green satchel handbag in her lap. It was the cloak that drew Mrs. Evans's eyes the most, now draped elegantly over the chair. It was a dark blue color with a faintly purple iridescence and appeared to shimmer entirely on its own.

"Afternoon, then." Mrs. Evans said politely, laying the silverware and the menu down on the table. "What'll it be today?"

"I think I'm a bit early for afternoon tea, but I smelled the darjeeling from the door." the young lady replied. She gave the menu a quick look. "And I think I'd quite like to sample your scones. A plate of them, if you would."

Mrs. Evans jotted that down on her notepad. "Clotted cream and jam?"

"Yes, please. Bring the kettle out too."

"That'll just be a moment, luv."

Mrs. Evans tucked the notepad into her apron pocket and then made a quick check on her other customers to see if they needed anything more and glanced at the young lady along the way. She had started taking folders out of her handbag, ones that seemed far too big to fit so neatly into a handbag of that size.

But perhaps what the fashionable London girls were buying these days.

Mrs. Evans went back behind the counter to prepare the tea. She always kept several pots of water at a very low boil, so it was simply a matter of pouring the water into the kettle where the tea leaves were packed into the infuser. Always tea leaves. The thought of serving her customers a cup with a sack in it was enough to make her shudder.

The scones were prepped and waiting in the refrigerator on the far side of the area behind the counter, sliced in half and both sides smeared thickly with clotted cream and sweet strawberry preserve. She put all of this onto a tea tray with the cup and saucer, and carried it out to the young lady.

"Here we are, then." Mrs. Evans said, placing the tray gently on the table, careful not to set it directly on the young woman's papers; they looked quite important and official. "Will that be all for you?"

"No." The young lady smiled and gestured to the empty seat across the table. "Please, join me. I'd love to have a chat. I've been traveling around all morning and it's been something of a rotten day."

Mrs. Evans considered it for a moment. She didn't have much else to do today and working on the books was getting a bit tedious. She could use a break. So she nodded her assent, then retrieved a cup and saucer for herself along with a plate of small cakes.

It was a strange to sit down to an early afternoon tea with someone who was at least ten to fifteen years her junior. The young lady must have been only recently out of university. She had that look about her; someone who had set foot into the wider world not that long ago and had found it more wanting than she'd suspected.

There was a calm quiet as they poured tea. The rain had picked up a little in the meantime, pattering down steadily outside, but the fire under the flue crackled warmly. Oddly though, the sounds of the customers seemed fade into the background until they had vanished altogether and that was when young lady deigned to speak.

"Mrs. Evans, I was hoping to speak to you about something important." she said, and before Mrs. Evans could ask how the woman had even known her name, she went on. "My name is Lucy York. I'm a professor at a rather prestigious boarding school in Scotland and on the behalf of the headmaster, it is my great pleasure to inform you that your daughter Lily has made our short-list."

"But Lily hasn't applied for any scholarships." Mrs. Evans pointed out. "I'm quite sure of it. I hounded her about it for weeks."

"Our school is selective. A bit on the side of invite-only." Ms. York said. Or was that Professor York? She seemed a bit young to be a professor. "But Lily has demonstrated some of the outstanding qualities that we look for and we would like to extend to her a place in our student body."

"What sort of qualities? Academic? Athletics? Extra-curricular?" Mrs. Evans wondered. It had to be academic. Lily's marks were second to none, but she was no stand-out in athletics and she spent too much of her time lately with that dreadful Snape boy to be bothered with extracurriculars.

Professor York gave a smile that looked oddly strained, like she was anticipating an argument. "It can be a bit difficult to explain. Is Mr. Evans available? And Lily as well? I'd like to have them both present for this so I don't have to repeat myself."

"Yes, I'll bring them over right away." Mrs. Evans said, rising to her feet.

 _A proper school for Lily, thank goodness! I thought we would never..._ Her thoughts trailed off into a sense of undefineable excitement.

Mrs. Evans hurried out the back door of the shop into the narrow yard where they kept the rubbish bins. There was a high wall made of jutting bricks that went about ten feet up. On one side where the wall met with the next building over, there was a locked door. Mrs. Evans produced the key, unlocked it, and let herself into the back garden of her home.

They actually lived directly behind the tea shop in a small terraced house that followed the pattern of "two up, two down". In other words, two rooms upstairs and two rooms downstairs. The Evanses were lucky enough have had the kitchen added on before they'd moved in, though it had signficantly reduced the size of the back garden.

Mr. Evans sat in the front parlor, bent over his sewing machine and his brow furrowed in concentration. A mass of colorful fabric spilled out of his lap and onto the floor; a patchwork quilt he had been putting together for two years now and he was almost finished with it. It was an odd hobby for a man his age to have, but Mrs. Evans supposed that if her husband enjoyed it, then who was she to say anything?

"Ben, dear, leave that for a moment." she said, tapping his shoulder to make sure he was listening. "There's a bit of a thing in the shop. I need you to come."

Mr. Evans looked around at her in mild alarm. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes. There's a young lady in the shop. She's a professor from a school. She says Lily made their short-list." Mrs. Evans explained. "A boarding school, Ben. In Scotland."

"Really?" Mr. Evans's eyes went very wide for a moment and then he grinned hugely. "Which school in Scotland? Did she say? Is it a scholarship?"

"She wanted me to get you first, so she could explain." Mrs. Evans replied. She moved a little closer to her husband, reflexively glancing over her shoulder. "It sounds like one of those schools that scouts out a few promising but under-privileged students every year. There must be a scholarship."

"It's a pity scholarship, but it'd be better than none at all." Mr. Evans agreed, setting the mass of quilt aside to stand up. "We need to get her out of Cokeworth and away from the Snape boy."

Neither parent had never said it in so many words, but they wanted both of their daughters to be successful and happy, and it _especially_ meant getting out of Cokeworth. There was more to the world than Cokeworth Secondary and then a job with one of the local factories, a fact that Petunia had grasped keenly. She had spent her final year of primary striving to qualify for just about every possible secondary school available to her and earn a full scholarship, writing as many essays as was required of her until she had finally struck gold with a rather posh one just outside of London.

But that same fact was one that Lily seemed to be ignoring with a strange determination that was uncharacteristic of her. It was because of that _Snape_ boy, Mr. Evans was sure of it. The boy wasn't insidious enough to be a bad influence on Lily, but it was clear he was a very poor one all the same. The boy's father Tobias was odious and if Mr. Evans could have fired the man from the steel mill, he would have done so in a heartbeat. The only reason Snape the Elder stayed on at the factory was because he had managed to place himself vitally enough that he was indispensible. They couldn't get rid of him without upsetting the smooth flow of the factory for months. Training someone else do to his job would have been more time than it was worth.

"Now's our chance." Mrs. Evans said eagerly. "Go on and introduce yourself. The professor's the youngest one there. I'll go get Lily out of her room."

The adults nodded to each other as if silently agreeing on _something_ and went their separate directions. Mr. Evans went to put on his shoes and Mrs. Evans went upstairs to get her youngest daughter.

With only two bedrooms upstairs, Lily shared accommodations with her sister. The room had been divided down the middle by less of an invisible line and more of a curtain. Actually a pair of old bedsheets that had gotten too thin and worn to continue to be of use as bedsheets. They had been strung up when Petunia had started demanding more privacy than the shared room offered. The girls each had a window from which the view was the same _-_ \- the neighbors house and the alley below.

This week, Petunia had been invited on holiday to Cornwall with a well-off friend from her posh London school and she would be gone for another week. For the first time all summer, Lily had the room to herself. She took advantage of her sister's absence to get some reading done in the peace and quiet of her room.

Mrs. Evans knocked on the door as a courtesy, but opened it up and strode across Petuna's half of the room and moved aside the curtain before Lily could look up from her book and protest the interruption.

"Lily, darling, there's a woman over in the shop from a school _-_ -" Mrs. Evans started, but her eyes fell onto the state of the floor and she gasped. "Lily! Your side is a pigsty! Look at this mess!"

From her position on the narrow bed, Lily peered over the top of her book and at the general state of her side, and then back at her mother with raised eyebrows, as if to ask what she had expected.

It wasn't the spick and span, dust-free, everything-at-right-angles-and-parallel-to-everything-else geometric neatness of Petunia's side of the room. It wasn't even the general tidiness of the rest of the house to make it visitor-worthy. Because only once in a while did Lily remember to do the dusting. Only once in a while did she remember that she wasn't supposed to use her floor as both a wardrobe and a laundry basket. She had too many books and not enough shelves to put them on so they stacked up on the floor and spilled over like paper volcanoes. Her writing desk was small and cluttered quickly, a messy array of pencils and sheets of paper in varying states of crumpled-ness. She made her bed every morning at Petunia's demand, but she had never mastered hospital corners and tight-as-drum sheets like her sister, and so the blankets rode up after a fashion.

"Honestly!" Mrs. Evans waded forward and snagged a lump of clean clothes off the top of the empty laundry hamper. "Look at this, you have to put these things away or they'll wrinkle something awful! Going around with your clothes looking like this! How can you live in a room this messy?"

"It's not like I have clothes hanging from the light fixture." Lily pointed out, though she looked up very quickly just to make sure. "It's fine, Mum. I'll clean it up later, I promise."

"You always promise to clean it up later, but it doesn't happen." Mrs. Evans sighed, shaking her head. "I'd make you go whole hog on this room _right now_ , but there's a woman in the shop. She's a professor from a boarding school and she wants to talk to you."

Lily frowned, half in confusion. "But I didn't apply to any boarding schools." she said. She already knew where she was going come September and it wouldn't be Cokeworth Secondary.

"And isn't that the problem..." Mrs. Evans muttered rhetorically, though secretly very pleased by this turn of events. "Nonetheless, your marks must have caught their eye, so they sent a professor down to lay out the details, I imagine. So smarten yourself up and come over. And Lily?"

"Yes, Mum?"

"You're being offered a place at a better school than we could have hoped to send you to and I will tan your hide black and blue if you reject this."

Mrs. Evans finished off with a sour, pursed-lips glare of disapproval that made her look like she had been sucking on a lemon. It was the expression that let Lily know she was in trouble _somehow_ and she couldn't help a cringe, tucking her shoulders up and shrinking back into the pillow behind her.

Her mother put the clothes down on the hamper lid and backed out of the bedroom with the pursed lips still going. Lily didn't relax her shoulders until her mother had squeaked back out into the creaky hallway. She had been slacking somewhat this summer and they both knew it. A lot of her fellow classmates were bound for Cokeworth Secondary, but the ambitious who sought more from the world had sent their transcripts several miles down the road to the better schools that ringed Manchester. And all of her teachers had expected her to do the same, flapping application forms at her and slipping them into her bag.

Lily Evans was too brilliant for Cokeworth, they said. She was too brilliant to end up a secretary at the steel mill. She was too brilliant to stay in Cokeworth. She had a world to take by storm, they said.

She hadn't applied to anywhere because it would be Hogwarts come September. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and there was no doubt that she would go. And someone was supposed to come down from the school and explain it all...

 _The woman in the shop! That must be it!_ Lily realized, excitement and anticipation and all sorts of other similar emotion swelling up in her chest like a balloon and for a second, it felt as though she might float right off the bed _-_ -

Actually, she **was** floating right off the bed. She was already a good two or three inches above the duvet and starting to rise exactly like she was helium balloon.

"No! Down! Put me down!"

Her magic responded immediately and Lily thumped back down onto the comforter with something of a jolt. She patted the bed around her to make sure she was actually on top of the blanket. Then she threw the book aside onto the heap she had picked it out from and jumped off her bed excitely and ran for the door.

Someone was here about _Hogwarts_! They had to be!

Lily raced down the stairs to the front door and hastened to get her shoes on. She stopped and peered at her reflection in the hallway mirror. She combed her fingers through her hair a few times and gave her dress a quick inspection to make sure it wasn't overly wrinkled. It was just rumpled enough that Petunia probably would have gasped at her little sister's lack of propriety and Lily half-wished that she wasn't meeting a future professor looking a bit like her own wrinkled bed-sheets, but this was all very sudden.

Her fingers made another pass through her red hair before she deemed that it wasn't going to get any better and she absently smoothed the dress hem again. Then she threw her coat over her head and dashed through the rain to the tea shop, catching up in enough time to see her mother disappear through the back door.

There were normally customers drinking their tea or coffee or what-have-you at this time of day and even with this weather, but they were gone. The only people left in the shop were her parents and the woman professor, the latter of whom was quite something to look at. She had short-cut hair, a black-and-white checkered skirt, and a brightly orange blouse to accompany the vibrant green satchel and white go-go boots.

No wonder her parents looked a tad appalled.

"Lily, come sit down." Mrs. Evans pointed to the empty seat at the table. She was setting two more places for tea, because they might as well make a production of this.

The redhead did, sliding into the chair and eyeing the woman professor. Severus had told her that a lot of witches and wizards were really bad at wearing regular-person clothes and that made it really easy to spot them. Once you knew what to look for, they stood out a mile. But this woman was wearing the stuff that the ladies in Petunia's fancy clothes magazines modeled on every glossy page and there was nothing overtly magical about her.

"Hello, Miss Evans." the professor said politely, offering her hand. "I'm Professor York. I'm here to talk to you and your parents about your future schooling."

"I know. Mum just told me." Lily said, mentally biting her tongue. She didn't want to ask about Hogwarts only to find out that this woman wasn't here about Hogwarts, but some posh boarding school like the one Petunia went to.

It was probably about Hogwarts, but just in case it wasn't...

"Thank you for taking the time to come speak with us, Professor York." Mrs. Evans said happily, pouring tea into a cup for Lily with practiced poise. "We're _so_ happy you've come. I _always_ knew our Lily was bound for something remarkable."

"So what's your school about, eh?" Mr. Evans inquired, a glint in his eye. "Is it anything like the one our Petunia goes to? Posh but stern, turning young girls into respectable ladies, something like that?"

"Oh, Singeings Academy for Young Ladies." Mrs. Evans said. She still liked the way it sounded. "They called themselves the 'Eton of London' on their brochure. I don't think they're _quite_ that prestigious, but they are a very good school."

"I had a mate back in the day who went to their sister school _-_ \- what'd he call it, Smeltings? Right up until they started evacuating the city kids into the countryside." Mr. Evans commented. "He stayed with my family until the Blitz was over. Told me all about London, he did."

Professor York made the smile that a person formed when they were trying to stay patient. Mrs. Evans saw it and jumped.

"Oh dear me, here we are nattering away and you _must_ be on a schedule!" she tittered, sinking into the empty chair. "I"m so sorry, Professor York. Please, tell us all about this boarding school."

"Thank you, Mrs. Evans." Professor York set her teacup down gently. "Now, the gist of our school is that it seeks out those who demonstrate unusual talent."

"Unusual?" Mr. Evans repeated, saying the word slowly like it was foreign and he was pronouncing it for the first time. "How do you mean, unusual?"

"Odd. Strange. Abnormal. Unnatural." Professor York smiled. "By 'unusual', I mean you find yourself struggling to explain it because it defies the very laws of reality as you know them."

Mr. and Mrs. Evans blinked in stereo, their expressions confused. Lily struggled against a massive grin, hiding the few traces of it behind her teacup as she helped herself to the darjeeling.

It _was_ about Hogwarts!

It was Mr. Evans who looked at his wife and said tentatively: "Ivy, dear, you don't think..."

"Oh my stars!" Mrs. Evans gasped, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. Her confusion had morphed into understanding. "The flowers! Ben, it's about the flowers! My doilies! Petunia's shoes!"

"Oh no..."

Professor York looked rather amused as the pieces finally came together for the couple, like she had seen this all before and the reactions had never failed to please her.

"You're joking." Mr. Evans said, looking back at Professor York.

"I'm not." the professor replied.

"But _-_ -?!" Mr. Evans looked left and right, between his wife and his daughter in a sort of panic. "Lily once fried an egg on the counter at ten paces. Still in the shell. There's a school for _-_ \- for that sort of thing? What are you calling it?"

"We normally call it 'magic', but you are more than welcome to refer to it as sorcery, witchcraft, spellbinding, or hocus pocus." Professor York said briskly. "And I assure that there is more than just a school for magic out there, but let's focus on just the school for the moment. I'm from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, on the behalf of the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore."

She opened up the leather-bound portfolio beside her and Lily saw that it was stamped with a coat of arms consisting of a large golden letter H on a four-colored shield surrounded by four animals. She couldn't quite see what the animals were, but one had wings and the other appeared to be a serpent. The professor slid two booklets out of the pocket; one of them was pink and the other gray. She passed the gray one to Mr. and Mrs. Evans, and then slid the pink one across the table towards Lily.

"These booklets contain the frequently asked questions and concerns many newcomers like yourselves have." Professor York said, folding her hands over one another. "But if you have any burning questions that you absolutely must know the answer to right now, don't hold it in."

Mr. Evans jerked his head up from the booklet and for a moment, his jaw worked soundlessly. He had to clear his throat and give it another try. "It's _-_ \- It's magic?" He said it exactly like someone who didn't want to have his suspicions confirmed.

"Yes, it is." Professor York nodded.

His face crumpled in something like dismay. He was a simple man, who believed in simple things that were real and tangible. His childhood had never had much room in it for fairytales and magic, but what other name was he supposed to give to what had been happing with his daughter?

He looked over at his eleven-year old daughter as if searching for confirmation. This was one thing, he felt, where Lily clearly had the better authority on the matter.

To his discomfort, Lily nodded.

It was Professor York's turn to blink. "You already knew?" Then she shook her head. "Of course you did. What else were you supposed to think? How long have you been able to do these things, Miss Evans?"

"Um... a couple of months now, back when the snow was just starting to melt." Lily answered. She decided not to mention that she had only found out for sure it was magic just this past month, when Severus had finally approached her.

"A late bloomer, you are." Professor York commented.

"Does that make a difference?" Lily wondered.

"No, certainly not!" the professor assured her. "Magic often manifests itself between the ages of four and seven, but this typically happens in the magical families. A Muggleborn _-_ \- that is, a witch or wizard born to non-magical parents _-_ \- tend to manifest their magic at a later age. It's more a matter of the child copying their parents. A wizard child sees their parent doing magic and seeks to do the same thing so it happens young, but a Muggleborn witch like yourself doesn't have that model to copy from, so it takes longer. Does that make sense?"

"Like how ducklings learn to swim because the momma does it first?" Lily guessed.

Professor York beamed. "Precisely, Miss Evans! And it doesn't make a difference at all. You'll only be a little behind your peers, but you'll catch up in no time at all." she said reassuringly.

"But doesn't it make more sense to to figure out who the... uh, Muggleborns are early so when they start at Hogwarts it isn't so strange?" Lily asked.

Professor York's face crumpled briefly and she was silent long enough to make the eleven-year old wonder if she had said something wrong.

"It's not strange." the professor said, breaking her silence. "Personally, I think it's a very good idea, but it is one of the touchy subjects for the Ministry of Magic. It's still in the early stages of discussion." She cleared her throat. "But enough on that! Miss Evans, do you think you could perform some magic right here at the table?"

"Oh..." Lily bit her lip, a tad uncertainly. She had done it enough times before, but on her own time and not with someone pressuring her. Even though the school already knew she was magical, maybe they liked to see an on-the-spot demonstration.

Mr. and Mrs. Evans leaned forward expectantly.

"Take your time." Professor York advised. "We don't expect anything fancy. Can you make something move? Or perhaps you could give us some light?"

"Oh! Yes, I can!" Lily declared.

Making things move was hard, but light was easy. She rubbed her hands together quickly like she was warming them up and a small marble of yellow-white light formed between her palms. It wasn't very bright, but it was the first thing she had taught herself to do, in order to read late into the night after Petunia had gone to bed.

She presented the little marble to the teacher and her parents. Mrs. Evans let out a delighted gasp. If Mr. Evan's jaw had been any lower, it would have thunked into the tabletop. But Professor York clapped her hands.

"Well done, Miss Evans. Well done." She extended her hand and cupped in her palm was a small ball of light of her own, several inches larger than the one Lily had produced. "Making light is one of the easiest things to do and usually one of the first things a witch will figure out how to do."

Professor York puffed on the light like she was blowing out a candle and it extinguished itself just the same.

"There are two sorts of magic a young witch will perform. The first is 'instinctive'. In general, it's linked to a heightened emotional state, either positive or negative. This tends to come out more often in nursery-aged children, before they learn how to think with their heads." the professor went on. She conjured another ball of light just by cupping her hands together, but this time it came out a strong dark green. "The second is intentional magic, when the young witch has figured out what they're doing. This usually begins between the ages of five and seven for the magical-born, but closer to nine or ten for the Muggleborn."

"Is is dangerous?" Mrs. Evans asked faintly.

"Pardon?"

"Magic. Is it dangerous?"

Professor York smiled calmly. "It can be. It depends on how it is being used. I would wager that young children have the most dangerous magic. At that age, when they haven't had any training, but they get scared or angry, their magic will react to their emotional state. What makes it dangerous is not just the chance of someone getting hurt, but because the child can also get so flustered and scared of what's happening that they can't figure out how to make it stop.

"But that's where Hogwarts comes in. Magic comes in a multitude of forms; there are dozens of ways it can be used and we teach as many of them as we can find teachers for. In teaching our pupils to use their magic, we also teach them _control_ their magic and thus come to prevent any accidents caused by instinctive magic. Over the course of our seven-year program, your daughter will learn to control her magic and channel it appropriately alongside her peers under the supervision of highly qualified instructors in a _safe_ environment."

Professor York twisted the green light into more of a lumpy rod, like it was clay, and wrapped it loosely around her fingers. "Do you have any questions?" she asked pleasantly.

Lily thought she might have had a few, but she couldn't think of any right now. Her parents stared at the older witch with varying expressions of disbelief and confusion, their minds working overtime to assimilate everything they had just been told.

"Are there _-_ -" Mr. Evans cleared his throat. "Are there jobs?" he managed to ask. There wouldn't be a school if there weren't jobs to go along with it. Someone was teaching those teachers how to do their jobs, after all.

"Yes. We're much larger than just a school, as I said." Professor York replied. "Hogwarts is one of seventeen Confederacy schools _-_ -"

"Confederacy?" Mrs. Evans interrupted.

"The International Confederation of Wizards, established in sixteen ninety-three. It's the highest branch of government in the entire magical world, like the United Nations. The United Kingdom is governed by the Ministry of Magic with the minister at its head. Currently, that is Minister Ismael Fawley. He is the head of government. The head of state, obviously, is Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second." Professor York explained. "But let's stick to the subject of schooling for now, yes? Career counseling isn't until fifth year."

"The Queen knows?!" One or both of the Evans adults sputtered. Both of them made a noise, but the words came out so croaked and strangled it was difficult to tell which one of them had actually spoken.

"Of course the Queen knows." Professor York replied, giving them both a look like they should have already guessed that. "The Crown has known of the magical world's existence for over thirteen hundred years. We are all born citizens of the Commonwealth. Why _wouldn't_ we have the Queen as our head of state?"

Mr. and Mrs. Evans looked at each other and went "Er..." uncertainly in the way they did when Lily knew they didn't want to admit they had made a stupid mistake. It made perfect sense that the Queen was sort of in charge of the magical world. A lot of her power was probably ceremonial and maybe they only answered to her when there were really big disasters were happening, but she was still _there_.

"S-So how _-_ \- How big?" Mr. Evans wondered, his expression flicking rapidly through several emotions, but always coming right back to confusion. Which was pretty normal for someone finding out that the world was a bit bigger than they'd been led to believe. "I mean _-_ \- Are there other schools? Other schools for _-_ \- magic?"

"Yes. As I said, there are seventeen schools around the world that fall under a standardized curriculum that was created by the International Confederation of Wizards in seventeen twenty-three." Professor York said, nodding. "Hogwarts serves the British Isles and all of Her Majesty's sovereign dependencies, but it's not uncommon that we have students from Europe and North America as well. We pride ourselves on being a diverse, multi-faith school with a rich background."

"Is it expensive?" Mrs. Evans wondered. "We're- _-_ We're getting by, but certainly not with enough to send Lily to a boarding school and Hogwarts sounds like it's expensive. Not to mention all the supplies I'm sure she'll need."

Lily felt something inside of her flop down at the mention of their finances and it might have been her hope for attending. Money was really the only thing that held them back anymore. They were getting by, of course. Food on the table, clothes on their backs, but emergencies could easily devastate their bank account. They couldn't go on holiday even to the countryside and Lily didn't think she had ever gotten clothes that were new or hadn't belonged to Petunia first.

If Hogwarts was too expensive, they might have to opt out.

"Actually... No. You'd pay nothing in tuition." Professor York said cheerfully.

Mr. Evans about spat out of his tea and Mrs. Evans gasped in something that did look faintly like terror.

" _What_?!" they demanded, confused.

"That's impossible! Petunia's scholarship to Singeings is over a thousand pounds a semester! Fifteen hundred pounds!" Mrs. Evans declared, maybe a bit outraged that it actually cost nothing. "That included her uniform kit and all her books! If she wasn't on scholarship, we'd have been bankrupt before the end of the first year! How is Hogwarts nothing at all!?"

"Taxes." Professor York said simply. "Hogwarts is essentially a state-run school. The Ministry sees to its upkeep and the salary of the staff. Donations are always appreciated, of course. The only money you will actually put forward out of your own pocket is for supplies and even then. Hogwarts does have a fund to assist families like yours with the shopping. The fund pays for at least half the supplies, so you would only have to budget... Hang on a moment, I have the price list in here somewhere..."

She started rifling through the many papers in her folder.

"The crown auric _-_ \- our money _-_ \- is only a little less than the pound sterling, so you will be putting more money in for conversion." she went on while searching. "It'll be the books that set you back the most, I think. Depends on whether you buy new or used. First years always have to purchase the most books of any of the years. Some of the books Miss Evans will keep for the entirety of her Hogwarts career. Aha!"

Professor York whipped out a sheet of parchment and laid it down in front of the Evanses. Mr. Evans took his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on.

"There are some things you shouldn't buy used, mainly the potions equipment. Most potioneers won't recommend a used cauldron and those who do are probably looking to cheat you." Professor York explained. She had dug up another copy of the list to look at. "The uniform kit should be brand-new; the tailoring charms will hold better that way. Most students don't need to go in for refit until third year, sometimes fourth. You can purchase all of the books used; just make sure you're getting the most recent edition. It just doesn't do to have out-of-date information! You can also sell back the first-year books that Lily won't need for second year or exchange them."

"The highest total price is almost a thousand pounds." Mr. Evans commented, his brain already working to calculate their yearly budget. "You said their was a fund to assist shopping? It'll pay for half the cost?"

"At minimum." Professor York nodded. "If you're _-_ \- _struggling_ a bit more, then bring your recent tax forms with you to the bank for the account manager to view and they'll work out precisely how much the fund will pay for."

"Soo..." Lily prompted, looking up from her teacup at her parents. "Do I get to go to Hogwarts or...?"

She knew their finances were a touchy subject. Hogwarts may have had no tuitions fees, but it sounded like the supplies alone were mighty expensive. Perhaps a percentage of the profits were paid back into the assistance fund or went into the school's bank account.

"Well, I'm sure we can work something out with the bank." Mr. Evans said. He looked at his wife to make sure she was on board with the choice. Mrs. Evans nodded.

"Yes!" Lily thrust a triumphant fist in the air. Hogwarts for sure! She would have to tell Severus the very next chance she got!

"Excellent!" Professor York clapped her hands and started digging into her portfolio again. "There is some paperwork for you to fill out, a few legal documents that need signing, that sort of thing. What's today's date?"

"July thirty-first." Mrs. Evans answered.

"Yes, next Friday, the eighth. The Potter family down in Somerset is hosting a small party and a sleepover for all the incoming first year students and their parents, then a chaperoned visit to Diagon Alley the next day on the ninth. You'll need to RSVP if you want to attend." The professor handed over the aforementioned paperwork along with a brochure that was printed on heavy cardstock. "Diagon Alley is where you'll find all Hogwarts supplies. It's down in London. If you don't wish the attend the Potters's get-together, you'll be reimbursed for travel and hotel stay if necessary. All further information is in that brochure. Now why don't you get on with that paperwork and Miss Evans can read her acceptance letter."

And out it came, a heavy parchment envelope that Severus had told her about, addressed to _Lily Evans, 7 Weavers Street, Cokeworth_ in bright blue ink. It was sealed shut with red wax bearing the same coat of arms that was on the professor's portfolio. A lion, a badger, a snake, and an eagle around the letter H. Lily held it in her hands for a moment before she opened it, trying not to tear it completely apart in her haste to read it. It was one thing to be told about the school and attending it, but it was another to actually hold the acceptance letter and to read the words that told her she had a place in the school no matter what.

After a moment (during which her parents muttered over the legalese adorning some of the paperwork), she stopped holding her breath, opened the envelope, and extracted the letter.

' _Dear Miss Evans,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment, to be bought at Diagon Alley in London. Additional information on the location of Diagon Alley may be found in the '_ _The Quick and Dirty Guide for the Hogwarts Muggleborn_ _', or by Owling the offices of the Public Information Services._

 _Transportation to Hogwarts has been arranged through the Hogwarts Express. Please take the 12:10 train out of Manchester Victoria station from Platform One and One-Eighths on August 25th. The ticket is enclosed. If you happen to miss the train, step to the street-curb and summon the Knight Bus (instructions may be found in your booklet). The Knight Bus will transport you to the next station for pick-up._

 _We look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Rosemary Morningstar_

 _Deputy Headmistress'_

 _P.S.: You are cordially invited to attend a fete hosted by Lord and Lady Potter on the eighth of August on their estate in Somerset, for all incoming first year students. Details enclosed._

* * *

The busy paperwork had not been completed on the spot, but by the time Lily had been shooed back over the wall to the house, enough of the blanks had been filled in that there was no going back. Professor York stayed on hand to explain any of the more fiddly details of the paperwork to Mr. and Mrs. Evans.

Lily dearly wished she could have stayed in the shop to ask questions of her own or just to listen and see what else she could learn, but her parents had decided that what had come next was adult-work and not suitable for a child to eavesdrop on.

Her acceptance letter in hand, Lily sat down on her bed and started extracting from the envelope the rest of the pages. They were all parchment, slightly yellow-ish and stiff. There was actually _another_ smaller envelope in there as well and she set that aside to look at in a moment. But the rest was the supplies list, all three pages of it. She gasped a little when she saw why.

"Twenty books? Cor, they really weigh you down, don't they."

Professor York certainly hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said it would be the books that would set them back the most.

The book list contained all of the titles, a brief description of each and what class they would be used for, and for what year they would be used for. Some of the books, like the two texts for a class called "Herbology", and the two for "Potions" and one titled _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ would be in use for all of her school years. The _Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ would only last her the first two years and many of the others were only meant for one year before the content of the text was exhausted.

The uniform sounded a bit stuffy with at least four layers of clothes across the upper body, but Lily supposed that up there in the Scottish Highlands when winter set in, she would be grateful for all the layers. Hogwarts was a big old castle, according to both Severus and Professor York. They couldn't find and plug up _all_ the holes so sometimes it got a bit drafty when the wind blew.

The uniform still sounded stuffy. And very monochrome to boot.

Lily tried to imagine what it would look like on her. The description talked about an "under-tunic", which was long-sleeved for cold weather and sleeveless for warm weather; coming in white, gray, or cream. Then the overtunic, black with bell sleeve hems and a turtleneck (and a short-sleeved version for the summer). Next was the vest (for girls; the boys wore a waistcoat), also black and fastened with gold buttons. Finally, a surcoat, but Lily had no idea what that looked like, so her mental image failed her. The girls also wore dark gray knee-length skirts and stockings that could be black, white, gray, and dark blue (the boys wore trousers, but their socks had the same color restrictions). Very last, a pair of knee-high girls' boots.

She hoped the whole combination would come off very noble and regal and wizardly. She didn't want to look silly in a uniform she would be wearing for the next seven years.

Other supplies included one cauldron (pewter, standard size 2), a telescope, a set of brass scales, glass or crystal phials, and a wand.

The wand. That was what she was looking forward to the very most.

There was only so much one could do without a wand, as far as Severus had told her, and Lily trusted that he wasn't lying to her. A wizard without a wand could only conjure light and make things move around, because the human hand just wasn't the proper thing to channel magic.

Lily closed her eyes and tried to imagine the wand as well. Severus had been very lean with the details; he really didn't know too much about wands and how they were made. He also didn't _see_ a wand very often; his mother kept hers shut away in a drawer upstairs most of the time as to not anger her husband unnecessarily. Wands were carved out of different woods and different things served as the core conduit and it varied _a lot_ depending on who made the wand. What he did know was that no wizard had the opportunity to _choose_ their wand. It was the other way around. The wand chose the wizard and whatever they got would be what suited them best.

That didn't stop Lily from trying to imagine it. She imagined what it would be like to hold her wand for the first time. Maybe she'd _really_ feel the magic then, as something more than just a slight tingle in her fingertips. She could see herself casting spells with it, light streaming from the tip as she conjured fire and other things. A magic wand in her hand and she'd be a real witch.

Not that she wasn't _already_ a witch, but she'd feel a lot more like one, for sure!

And she'd get out of Cokeworth...

Lily jammed a hand over her mouth to stifle what would be a shriek of delight. It hadn't occurred to her before now, but it was true! Her being a witch meant she would be able to leave Cokeworth behind forever! Just having magic could take her places she had only _dreamed_ of!

Hogwarts would give her a good education, that must was certain. After that, she could study magical creatures or _-_ \- or... She glanced at the booklist _-_ \- Ah, she could try her hand at potions, or become a magical historian or an astronomer (Did wizards have astronomers?) or _-_ -

Lily did a double-take at the booklist.

"Etiquette? Why's that there?"

At the bottom of the list was the title _Excrutiating Etiquette: How Not To Muck It Up_ by: Violet M. Debrett. The blurb assured her that it contained up-to-date information on the proper forms of address for persons of note, minding one's manners in all situations, the social rules, and the art of conversation.

Her eyes strayed back to the acceptance letter, back to the post-script which referred to "Lord and Lady Potter". That sounded less like a courtesy and more like an actual title and if she had an _etiquette_ class, perhaps the Wizarding world had a functioning noble class.

She could get to meet an actual lord and lady.

"That's so _wicked_." Lily whispered, grinning.

Severus hadn't told her anything about that, but she had also accepted that there seemed to be a lot Severus just didn't know about. Like it had never been any concern in his life.

He lived here in _Cokeworth_ , after all. An hour outside of Manchester, but it might as well have been the edge of the world.

"Well then, Severus." Lily started briskly, like her friend was in the room with her. "Sounds like we've got a lot of catching up to do."

* * *

-0-

I know what I'm about to say will make or break a lot of future readership, but I'm putting this out there early and openly. _ **I do not like Severus Snape.**_

I have my reasons and regardless of whether you're pro or anti-Snape, you've likely heard many of them. It would just take up space to enumerate them. Suffice to say, I share many of the same opinions as the anti-Snape groups. If you are a hard-core pro-Snape defender, then please for the love of sanity, both mine and yours, stay out of my PMs (and reviews) with your assorted arguments. I'm making it pefectly clear. I NO LIKEY THE SNAPE. This is not complicated.

That being said, I acknowledge that, as a character, he is interesting and complex and it'll be fun to explore his growth. I acknowledge that his storyline is integral to the overall story, thus it will get the depth and respect it is due. My portrayal of him will not be terribly sympathetic, but I won't skimp on his story.

Likewise, all that being said, you don't have to keep reading. Don't hate-read and then complain about it. That's not complicated either.


	6. Chapter 6

I do have an excuse for how long it took this chapter to appear.

See, back in July of this year, my old hard-drive decided it was time to die and took all my files with it on its Viking funeral. While a good chunk of my stuff was backed up, I wasn't expecting to lose the functionality of my relatively brand-new computer before I'd had it even a year, so I didn't back up anything that was written after Dec 2, 2017. So the huge amount of rewrites I made on this story was just flat-out lost. The old version was backed up, but it was _old_ version, so I've been having to rewrite these chapters AGAIN. If this has ever happened to you, you know it can get tedious sometimes. Motivation was a wee bit hard to come by until recently.

Chapter six here is more like a rewrite of a rewrite. Rewrite number 1 ballooned it into two chapters, but looking back, it seemed like _too much time_ to spend with this OC. So this, rewrite 2, brought it back down to a single chapter.

Remember how I said back in the first chapter that there would be OCs and some of them would have ongoing story-lines? Well, here's one of those OCs. Read without judgment, if you could. I know how iffy it is introducing OCs at all, but also independently of any canon characters.

* * *

Chapter Six:

The flashbang heatwave of July had passed, bringing with it the expected downpour of rain that came in wave after wave. London was thoroughly drenched during the first few days of August. The River Thames rose high enough up its embankments that the public was advised to be watchful of possible flooding.

By the fourth of August, the clouds seemed to have drifted down to the ground, settling across the great city in a swathe of fog. But London always seemed to look its best when the fog banks rolled down the streets, as though it filled in the cracks and obscured the worst details. It distilled the light, giving the neon signs more prominent glows. The warmly lit fronts of the coffee shops and the cafes and the chippies were even more inviting through the gloom and grayness. Annie eyed them hungerly, but she felt the emptiness of her pockets more keenly than the emptiness of her stomach.

She hunkered in the mouth of a narrow alley just off King's Road. Once a private royal road, it was now a bustling street of commerce with shops bursting from every corner and a little further along there were stately townhouses for some of London's most privileged citizens. Even in the foggy damp, enterprising young men and women scurried to and fro, taking advantage of the absence of crowds. King's Road was normally packed when the weather was acceptable, but the proper mod girls knew that sometimes the best deals could be found when there was no one else on the street.

Annie watched the fashionably dressed ladies and the dapper men stroll along, sometimes arm in arm, and something burned low in her gut. Maybe jealousy. It could have been hunger too. Either way, she was stuck with the knowledge that they had something she didn't.

They had a long of things she had only dreamed of.

They had nice clothes, for one.

When it came to clothes, Annie had no choice but to depend on the goodwill of her neighbors because even the second-hand shops were just a touch too expensive some days. There were many children in her tower block and most of them were a little older than her. The boys especially were rapidly outgrowing their shirts and trousers. The surviving clothes that weren't immediately handed off to a younger sibling went to Annie's mother for inspection. Annie had learned to accept the sports-themed T-shirts and the stained hoodies with a grudging grace and put forward a front that she was just happy to have clothes on her back.

She was always happy to have clothes on her back, make no mistake. If she was going to freeze in the winter in an unheated flat, she'd rather do it in several layers of clothes than none at all. But she longed for brand-new clothes that weren't just underwear.

What Annie really wanted was a pretty skirt. Something brightly colored with delicate embroidery. A skirt that was soft and new and one she wouldn't feel embarassed to wear. The only skirt she had was a dowdy navy-blue. An itchy woolen thing, the bottom hem of which had crept up past her knees a little while back. She wore it to school because it was one of the few nice clothes she had.

The older girls in her tower block hung on to their skirts as long as possible, modifying and expanding the hems to keep up with their waistlines. By the time the skirts were worn down enough to get passed along, the waistline had been expanded so much that it wouldn't have fit Annie anyways.

The mod girls who swanned down the street did so in their finery, the expensive dresses swooshing around their knees and their feet tap-tapping along in those little buckled shoes. They wore neat little hats and carried sort of frilled umbrellas as boldly colored as their chunky purses.

But more importantly, at the moment, the well-dressed shoppers of King's Road had money. Fat little wallets and overflowing purses, bursting with more money than they really needed. It was like they were just _begging_ Annie to come and relieve them of a few pound notes. She didn't need much; maybe fifty pounds altogether. A little for her to get a spot of lunch and the rest could go into groceries for the rest of the week.

She and her mother were getting by, if you defined it as keeping a roof over their heads. But Rosaline's waitress job only raked in a pittance most months and by the week rent was due, they were going without meals in order to make sure they had enough money to keep the landlord happy for this month too.

Fifty pounds. Some bread and tea and jam. Annie would happily live off toast for a week.

Annie eyed the shoppers, trying to determine which one would be an easy mark. There was a trick to it, one she hadn't quite figured out. Something about the way they walked or the swing of their arms gave insight to how closely they were paying attention. The quality of their clothes was the only one Annie had sorted; the highter the quality, the wealthier they were. And the rich were less likely to be carrying any money with them, because they liked to show off how unconcerned they were with their finances by never setting foot inside a bank.

The eleven-year old girl finally spotted a potential candidate: a woman in her mid-twenties or thereabouts, in a blue dress, white tights, and white shoes. Her umbrella was blue too, but her purse was a gaudy orange satchel. Her hair was two long brown braids that hung down almost to her waist and tied off with very purple ribbons. A spot of brightness against the gray that had overtaken London.

She was staring intently into the window of a shop, more importantly. Annie adjusted her cap so it cast a bit of a shadow over her face, hitched up her backpack, and stepped out of the alley. She strolled up the street as casually as she could, shoulders a little hunched. The sidewalk was narrow and it didn't give her much room to plan a stealthy approach, but it made it a lot more convenient to bump into the mark if needed.

 _You don't see me. I'm not here. I'm just part of the background. Ignore me ignore me ignore me._ Annie thought fiercely.

The woman was apparently transfixed by the shiny sparkle of a gem-studded necklace behind the glass window. So transfixed that she didn't notice Annie's approach, nor did she feel a small hand slipping into her purse and lifting away her billfold.

Annie pushed the billfold up her jacket sleeve and then shoved her hands into her pockets with a manufactured shiver, like she was cold. Just in case anyone had noticed her. No one had; she had a perfect track record so far, but she didn't want to chance it.

She turned the next corner that came to her and hurried down the tiny alley there. It didn't go all the way to the parallel road, but made a right turn and then a left to empty on to the adjacent street, creating a little blind spot from both ends. Once in that blind spot, she took the billfold out and opened it to count the bank notes and almost gasped aloud.

Just over a hundred pounds, in assorted fives and tens and twenties.

Her hands shook a little as she counted the bills again, just to make sure she hadn't miscounted the first time. It came out the same. She was holding just about a hundred pounds. More money than she had ever seen in her life. More money than even her mother made on a single paycheck.

 _Bread! Milk! Maybe even some chicken!_ Annie realized, breathing very rapidly now.

She had money to buy food. And other things. Her mother had been trying so hard to stretch their laundry detergent. Toilet paper. Oh god lord, they could go back to actual toilet paper for a while. Annie's bum might actually recover from the old rags they'd resorted to.

And lightbulbs! That would make her mum happy, having lightbulbs again.

Annie extracted a single five and then exact change for the bus from the bundle and slid it into her pocket. The rest she stuffed away into the bottom of her backpack, where there was a little inside pocket. Where it would be safe as she went through the rest of her day. Buoyed by her success, she left the alley the opposite way she had entered and made her way back around to King's Road to the nearest bus stop.

She lived in Whitechapel, a rather poor choice all around. As if there had been a choice to make. At the time, her mum Rosaline had been strapped for options and cash, after two years of living on her own, attempting to keep fed and clothed both herself and a toddler who always seemed to be coming down with the sniffles. The newly opened Ainsley Towers, a new block of council housing, had simply been the most affordable option. The building supervisor had been more interested in filling the flats than caring about who did the filling. Three men later, Rosaline had been able to make the first month's rent. She had been picking up odd jobs ever since.

Stepping off the bus, Annie spotted the dizzyingly tall towers on the corners of the block. They were the tallest structures around, looming over the squat buildings of Spitalfields. She looked up at the tower, ignoring the people passing by her, and remembered exactly _why_ she had left the flat this morning.

Her mother was _entertaining company_.

Rosaline's current and, so far, most lasting job was at what _might_ be called a pub. It served pints and pub grub during the day, but when the sun went down, the curtains went up and the waitresses came out to dance in appallingly little clothing. Every now and again, a waitress was expected to entertain a client in the privacy of their flat.

It was Rosaline's turn for that.

Sighing, Annie turned away from the street to Ainsley Towers and made her way to one of the more well-trafficked road. There was a lovely tea shop a few blocks down and around the corner. Her mum called it a place of ill-repute, if only because she thought very little of the strange foreign man who ran the place.

The lettering out front of the shop was very foreign; so much so that she couldn't begin to guess what language it was. It was a little smoky inside, but it was warm and out of the pouring rain and the proprietor greeted her with indecipherable words and a broad smile.

Annie paid first for her tea _-_ \- a strong dark bitter brew that tasted spicy and always burned at her throat with the first few sips _-_ \- and also a rich sweet pastry that had a nutty flavor and a flaky crust. The tea and the pastry balanced each other out nicely. She took them to her favorite squashy armchair by the window that looked out onto the street and then took one of the library books out of her bag.

When it came to genres, Annie certainly had a preference for the high-fantasy stories. Tales of wizards and kings, good and evil, kingdoms at war, magic and might, wand and sword! There were dashing rogues with hearts of gold and handsome princes who stood for justice. Stately queens and beautiful princesses who were stubborn and bloody-minded, but good-hearted people who got their princes in the end. There were dragons and centaurs and elves. Wise old crones and evil old hags. Fairies who had stolen away the heir to the throne and squabbling nobles locked in perpetual power-plays. Stories like these had a lot of backstabbing going on in the royal court, but it gave the story a sense of mystery and intrigue.

Not that it truly needed mystery and intrigue to keep Annie turning the pages.

She had probably single-handedly kept the entire fantasy section on the library shelves, for as often as she had checked the books out. She _loved_ curling up with a good fantasy story and getting lost in the tales of magic and royalty. Even when the books ended, she continued the stories in her head, imagining herself in the place of one of those princesses who populated every story from front to back. Sometimes she was the missing heir raised by traveling nomads who had to take back her kingdom from the evil king who had usurped the throne. Sometimes she was the princess who had been kidnapped by a dragon, except the dragon needed help only she could provide. And sometime she was the magician's apprentice who had been tasked with destroying a great evil that her teacher had failed to defeat the first time around.

Sometimes, those stories were the only thing that kept her going when her mum had the bad days.

It went without saying, for the most part, that Annie Jones longed for something more out of her life. Born to a single mother with nary a dad in sight. Born to a _teenager_ , moreover, who had been shut out by her family for the sudden shameful pregnancy. Rosaline couldn't seen to keep a job down for more than a few months. Seven months so far with the current one, but she _was_ pretty good at spreading her legs. She talked a lot about making sacrifices for her daughter's future, but from Annie's current vantage point, she couldn't see any future for herself.

Right now, though, she questioned whether or not she would even _go_ to secondary school this fall. It seemed more prudent to find a job with some ethically-questionable establishment who thought nothing of employing an eleven-year old girl. She could dry dishes or sweep the floors or clean the windows. She wasn't useless.

But for now, she was content enough with her tea and pastry and a good book. The future would still happen tomorrow. She'd worry about it then.

Annie had just finished both the last of her tea and chapter four of the story (where the magician's apprentice had to disguise herself as a boy in order to undertake the quest) when she noticed there was a man sitting across from her. Her favorite corner of the tea shop had two armchairs and a shared table between them, so acquiring a short-term neighbor was normal. The standard procedure was the politely ignore one another. It wasn't the man's physical features that made her pull a double-take. He had gingery-blonde hair and eyes that were the gray color of wet pavement; all very normal.

It was his _clothes_.

They were, at best, a mish-mash of various Victorian era stylings that she recognized from her time spent perusing the books, trying to date the ghosts of Whitechapel based on what they were wearing. The man had successfully managed to pick the ones that didn't look _too_ odd put together. He didn't stick out very much; not here in London where the fashion trends were odder than a six-toed cat. It was just that they stuck out to Annie who recognized that the clothes had come from at least six different decades. He didn't seem to have done it for authenticity's sake, but rather because that was what he'd felt like wearing when he'd gotten up this morning.

Before she could look away, he noticed her staring and smiled at her.

"Good afternoon, little miss." he said in the cultured tones of someone who did not live in London. "I don't mean to interrupt your tea-time, but is your name Joanna Jones?"

Annie startled a little and was instantly on the defensive. Having total strangers known one's name was generally a worrisome sign.

"Ah, ah, nothing to worry about, young one. I'm not here to hurt you." the man said soothingly. Which, in her mind, was a sure sign that he was here to hurt her. "My name is Leo Mietius. I'm a professor from an exclusive boarding school in Scotland and your name has made our list."

"I dinnit apply to no boarding school." Annie told him, heavily exaggerating the East End drawl. She placed her bookmark and snapped the book closed.

"I know you didn't. Invitations are sent based on merit." Professor Mietius said.

"I ain't a good student. Not good enough for some boarding school." Annie said, a little bitterly. It wasn't her fault, really. The teachers weren't interesting. Her attention always wavered and she spent the lesson doodling in the margins of her notes.

Professor Mietius smiled warmly. "I assure you, Miss Jones. This invite has little to do with _regular_ academics. Might it be possible for us to convene at a more private location, so that I may explain it to you?"

"What's wrong with right here?" Annie asked, not about to go _anywhere_ with a total stranger, no matter what he was claiming to be. Always stay in public if you could help it. It was the earliest lesson Whitechapel had taught her.

Professor Mietius shrugged hesitantly. His eyes glanced around the tea shop and then he said: "It's a bit exposed..."

Annie shrugged. "That's your problem, ain't it."

She half-expected the good professor to leave. Sometimes, all she needed to to was make it clear that she wasn't going anywhere with the creeps. The tea shop's proprietor was good about making sure she was able to stay out of trouble. He had intercepted a few creeps on her behalf. He didn't speak much English, but having a man yell at you in a foreign language you didn't speak was a very off-putting experience.

But the professor didn't leave. Instead, he peered at the walls of the alcove thoughtfully. Then he stood up and took something out of his trouser pocket. He was facing away from Annie, so she couldn't make out what was in his hand. He did something to the wall and then went over to the other nearby wall and probably did the same thing. He did not, however, return the thing to his pocket before he turned back around and Annie's jaw dropped when she saw it.

"It" was a stick of wood to anyone else, but there was no mistaking that it was highly-polished and cared for more than any mere stick of wood oughta be. Frankly, Annie had read too many fantasy novels to doubt what the professor held.

"W-What is that?" she asked anyways. She didn't think she could get the word out on her own.

Professor Mietius smiled as he returned to his seat. "My dear, I think you know exactly what this is." he said, presenting the stick with both hands.

Annie stared at it for a long moment, taking in the gleam of the polish that brought out the natural whorls, down to the engraved leather on the handle and the tiny little gemstone set into the bottom. She knew what it was. She _knew_ what it was, but the word was stuck in her head. Because it _couldn't be real_.

"Sh-Show me." she whispered. "Show me it's real. Please."

Professor Mietius gave that warm smile again and took the stick's handle. He said: " _Bulla partum_." and flicked it until small clear bubbles floated out, shimmering with iridesence. Annie caught one on the tip of her finger before it popped. She smothered her delighted laugh down into a giggle. It was real!

"Of course it's real." Professor Mietius said kindly. He didn't miss the way her eyes followed it as he stowed it back in his trousers. "Miss Jones, when I say that I am a teacher an exclusive boarding school in Scotland, well... I think you're clever enough to sort that one out for yourself."

Annie's mind didn't so much as race as it fell right over in a maddening combination of overwhelming excitement and utter confusion and flailed like it was trying to swim in a shallow puddle of water. It made no sense at all, yet it made all the sense in the world and she struggled with the dichotomy of it.

She had always known that she was different from the other children in the tower block and at her school. The other children couldn't poof into existence little glowing marbles of pure light. The other kids couldn't make themselves go unseen or catch teacups before they could smash on the floor. They couldn't make the spare sponge help them clean the chalkboard. She had always recognized what she was doing, but she hadn't dared put the word to it for fear that it was all some wonderful dream and naming it would wake her up. It was all she had, this fantastic little secret. She guarded it fiercely.

Annie licked her lips. "It's magic? Real magic?" she whispered.

The world didn't go up in smoke on the next blink. She was still in the tea shop, the book her lap and butterflies in her stomach.

"Oh, very much so." Professor Mietius nodded, smiling secretively. "And there are hundreds of us, Miss Jones. Thousands of witches and wizards just like you and me all over the world right at this very moment, living hidden among the regular people."

Annie really liked the sound of that "us". Like she finally belonged somewhere.

"And I'm a... a witch?" she asked, her throat dry. "But my mum ain't..."

Her mother didn't have any magic at all. That much Annie was certain of. Rosaline had never made fire appear in her bare hands or conjured light in the dark and, perhaps most telling of all, she had never made any of her mean boyfriends just _go away_. She hadn't made them stop hurting her daughter.

"My mum isn't magic." Annie said at last.

"What about your father?" Professor Mietius inquired.

Annie shook her head. "I don't know anythin' about my dad."

And by _nothing_ , she meant that almost literally. Except for the fact he'd obviously existed at one point. It wasn't unusual in a place like Ainsley Towers for the kids to be short a parent or two. Not unusual for this part of Spitalfields. But every single one of Annie's neighbors seemed to have _some_ idea what had become of their missing parent. A drunken sot. Deadbeat. Ran for Spain. Moved to Wales with some floozy. Dead. But Annie couldn't even ask. The one time she had felt brave enough to venture a question, her mother had gone pale and unresponsive for hours.

"Then for all intents and purposes, you're a Muggleborn." Professor Mietius said. "'Muggle' is what we call the non-magical people, like your mother. Without knowing who your father is, it's difficult to know if you're a really halfblood or just a Muggleborn. There's ways to find out, I think, but you might have to wait until you're of age."

"Does _-_ \- Does it make a difference?" Annie wondered. Did it matter if she was halfblood or Muggleborn?

"That depends." Professor Mietius commented. He stuck a hand under his jacket and fished around in some inside pocket until he took out an envelope. "Here, this is yours." he said, passing it over.

"It's just got my name on it." Annie said, seeing no address listed below her name. She flipped the envelope over and found it held shut with a wax seal.

"There's a magic quill at the school which helps us find students like you, but evidently, it drew a blank when it got to you." Professor Mietius said with a little laugh. "So we had to find you the old-fashioned way. I'm sorry it took so long. Normally we have all of the students squared away before July thirty-first and goodness if it isn't the fourth of August already!"

"I live in Ainsley Towers. You can see it from just about anywhere in Spitalfields." Annie pointed out.

Professor Mietius waved a hand dismissively. "I am the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and it is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Jones."

He executed a little bow from his seat, a rather sweeping gesture. Annie giggled and then bit down on it. Very suddenly, she wanted to sound grown up and mature. If she was a witch - a real proper magic-slinging witch - then perhaps she oughta try acting the part. And witches didn't giggle. They cackled.

She was a witch. Magic was _real_ and she was a _witch_! Somewhere not _out there_ but here in London itself was a whole other world hidden away, full of magic wands and stately robes and schools for magic! And it was all waiting for _her_.

"Will I get a wand?" she asked excitedly

"Yes, of course."

"Are there broomsticks to fly about on?"

"Naturally. If you're into that sort of thing. Never was my cup of tea _-_ -"

"Are there dragons and unicorns?"

"Yes, though I've never personally seen a unicorn. I saw a dragon from a distance once _-_ -"

"Where'd you say the school was again?"

"Hogwarts is very far north in Scotland, up in the Highlands _-_ -"

"What's it look like?"

"It's enormous castle almost a thousand years old, but it's so steeped in magic that it's constantly changing. It never looks the same two years in a row." Professor Mietius said fondly.

Annie's blue eyes sparkled in anticipation. "And I'm going there, right?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Professor Mietius said, waving hands in a 'calm down' gesture. "You have a few hoops to jump through before your attendance is a sure thing."

"Whaddya mean?" Annie asked nervously. Her fingers tightened a little around the edges of the envelope, with a vague thought that it might be snatched away from her. If she wasn't mistaken, in the envelope was her invite to the school, welcoming her into a world she had never dreamed existed. Magic and old castles and a secret society of wizards right here in the heart of London!

"It's simply policy to ask for an on-the-spot demonstration, to show that you have some conscious control over your magic." Professor Mietius explained. "The problem with you is that the you have not performed any significant magic in a few years, to the point that the Ministry's automatic trackers lost a bead on you. It's almost like you can no longer do magic."

"But I _can_ do magic." Annie said quickly. She let go of the envelope long enough to rub her hands together, producing a glow of yellowish-white light that hovered just over her palms like a gentle mist. There was no doubting what that was.

"Light conjuration. Even a Squib can do _that_." Professor Mietius said, giving a snort. "Light. Moving things around. Parlor tricks, Miss. Jones. I mean _real_ magic. The kind that makes your hair stand on end and your spine tingle-"

"I can see ghosts." Annie interrupted, feeling a touch desperate now. "I can see all the ghosts in Whitechapel. Probably all the ghosts in London if I looked hard enough. That's magic, innit?"

Professor Mietius clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Not as such. Let me demonstrate."

Without so much as a 'by your leave', he clasped one hand around hers in a squeezing grip. The next thing Annie knew, everything went black and there was a great crushing weight all around her. The pressure was enormous, like she was being shoved down a tight rubber tube. It felt like iron bands had wrapped around her chest. Her eyeballs were being forced back into her head, her eardrums were about to burst, and she was going to choke before she ever took another breath _-_ -

Rain spattered her face and the pressure vanished instantly from her body. Annie sucked in a lungful of the cool, slightly smoky air of London. Wind whistled past her ears and for a moment, the only thing she could see in front of her was Professor Mietius and the strange-looking sky behind him. She wasn't in the tea shop anymore, but before she could get her bearings, Professor Mietius grabbed the front of her jacket and let go of her hand.

She _tilted._

It was like that one time she had nearly fallen backwards off her bed; a sudden sense of emptiness behind her and nothing to catch her. And there wasn't much under her feet except for a metal rail.

"Professor!" she yelped, grabbing his arm with both of her hands.

"I don't recommend looking down." Professor Mietius said calmly.

Annie looked down.

The River Thames was below, brown and thrashing itself into whitecaps.

"Aaaaaahh!"

Professor Mietius sighed. "I told you not to look down."

"What are you doing?!" Annie cried, clinging tighter to the professor's arm. They were standing on the upper walkway of Tower Bridge above the river. Or rather, Professor Mietius was standing on a more solid platform where the workers likely stood when they up here and he was leaning her out over the side.

"Helping you, Miss Jones." the professor said calmly, like he wasn't the only thing between her and a plunge to her death. Possibly to her death. The river was sixty-four meters down (two hundred and thirteen feet) and that might not be enough to actually kill her. She could break every bone in her body instead, and still not die.

Not right away.

It would come slow instead. She'd sink right to the bottom of the Thames and drown, rather than dying from the trauma of the impact.

"How is this helping?!"

"It's simple. If you have not shown your true magic by now, it's because you have not been properly motivated." Professor Mietius explained. He had to raise his voice a little in order to be heard over the wind. "Magic shows itself most often in life-or-death situations, especially in Muggleborns and halfbloods. So I'm putting your life in danger."

"You're going to drop me?!" Annie squeaked. Her heart was racing so fast she barely felt it. Or maybe it had stopped altogether, holding its own breath in anticipation of what came next.

"What else did I bring you up here for?" Professor Mietius asked, smiling. "You don't want to die, so your magic will act in accordance to your desire. You'll save yourself. You'll probably slow down your fall. Maybe you'll float down the river afterwards. Like a cork! Magic, you know. It can do anything you want it to do." He shrugged, like he was reconsidering his words. "No, you're a Muggleborn, for all that it matters. You don't know after all."

The cool wind bit at Annie's fingers and she felt cold all over, except for her chest where there was a strange sort of heat rising in it. And the tears that stung her eyes. Tower Bridge had a speed limit of no more than twenty miles an hour, but at least sixteen hundred people crossed the bridge every hour, in form of pedestrians, cyclists, and motorists, and sort of thing had a way of shaking the bridge in a way that was imperceptible unless you were high enough to feel it. Up there, level with the walkways, it was impossible to ignore.

"Why are you doing this?!" Annie demanded.

Professor Mietius smiled kindly. "I'm helping you, Miss Jones. You want my help, don't you?"

"You're crazy!" Annie howled. "What if nothing happens?! What if I die?!"

"Then you were simply never meant to become a part of this world, Miss Jones." Professor Mietius replied, like it was the most obvious conclusion. "There are many things I dislike." Then his calm expression turned into a snarl. "But one thing I _hate_ with a passion is filthy Muggleborn trash like you having the _nerve_ to demand entrance to our world when you've done nothing to prove yourself!"

He shook the eleven-year old as hard as he could. Annie's foot slipped off the rail.

"Professor, please!" she cried. "Please, what have I done wrong?"

"What you've done wrong is that you've done nothing right in your entire life." Professor Mietius growled. "You have a power at your fingertips that Muggles have only _dreamed_ of. Your words have the ability to reshape the world around you! Yet you've squandered it like every other chance you were ever given!"

"I don't understand!" Annie wailed.

How could she fail at something she had never known about in the first place? You couldn't win or lose a race if you didn't even know you were supposed to be running it.

"At this rate, you never will." Professor Mietius said, sighing. It managed to sound fussy and put-upon. "You've squashed your precious magic down in some foolhardy attempt to look _normal_. To appease the delicate sensibilities of the Muggles who would sooner cut out your heart than accept that you are their superior. Now, instead of nurturing the magic in you to come out gently, I have to force it out of you like this!"

Annie became aware that she was shaking like mad, her knees knocking together. She didn't understand what was going on- That is, she understood perfectly that the professor seemed to be trying to kill her, but _why_. The kind man from the tea shop had suddenly turned into a raving lunatic who wanted to drop her off the top of Tower Bridge because- because she wasn't showing "true" magic? How he was even defining that? How was making light and catching teacups not true magic?

Professor Mietius's face softened slightly from the snarl. "I am sorry it had to come to this, my dear." he said gently. "But there isn't much time left before the students head up to Hogwarts for the school and thus we have no time to do this the gentle way."

 _He's going to drop me. He's really going to drop me._ Annie realized.

The crushing feeling suddenly came back, squeezing her ribs and her lungs and her head until she thought they would burst. Then the ground was solid under her feet again and she stumbled, her knees folding under her. Annie the pavement hard with her knees and hands. It took her a frantic second to realize that Professor Mietius was no longer holding onto the front of her jacket. That he was sprawled on the pavement several feet away. They were in a dingy alleyway now, just off the river where the rainwater dripped down from the eaves. Through the gap in the buildings, she could see one tower of the bridge. Gasping, Annie scrambled backwards away from the mad professor until her back hit the dirty brick wall.

"You Apparated?!" Professor Mietius yelled, trying to fight his way loose from the coat that had wrapped arond his knees. "You Apparated us both?!"

"I dinnit do anything!" Annie yelled back.

Professor Mietius seemed past the point of listening. He raised his wand, whirling it like a lasso above his head, trailing a sickly washed-out yellow from the tip. Annie shrank back, intensely aware that she was exposed, vulnerable, and that she had no way of fighting back, even if she knew _how_.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

 ***BANG!*** went something like a car backfiring. Annie's eyes flew open in time to see the mad professor slam into the opposite wall. He slumped to the dirty pavement, stunned but still conscious. A woman strode down the alley with all the predatory grace of a stalking lioness. A stately _beautiful_ woman the likes of which Annie had never seen no matter where she went in London. She held a wand in front of her, its tip glowing an angry yellow deepening to a dark red in the center. Mietius growled and tried to wrangle himself back upright on uncoordinated limbs, flipping his wand this way and that, albeit with no effect.

"No, I don't think so." the woman said in a sweet, honeyed voice. "You've tried quite enough already, you horrid little man. How dare you."

She drew her wand-arm back like she was winding back to throw a baseball and heaved it forward just the same. The yellow glow at the wand's tip unfurled like a many-tongued whip that wrapped around the man's arms and shoulders and chest. Then it lashed upwards, flinging the professor into the air about the buildings and hurled him out of sight, presumeably towards the river. The woman watched the sky for a moment before she seemed satisfied with the results. Then she turned to the eleven-year old girl.

"S-Stay back!" Annie yelped, pushing herself against the wall, heedless of the cold rainwater that snaked down her neck.

"Oh my dear." the woman said softly, sweetly. The elegant lines of her face relaxed into a loving smile. "No one is going to hurt you anymore. I promise."

Her voice was so gentle and warm that Annie wanted to believe her right away, but a little niggle of common sense told her to be careful. She had always listened to that little niggle of sense in the past. It had kept her out of trouble before.

With delicate steps, the woman walked over to Annie and crouched down out of arm's reach. The smell of summer flowers wafted towards her. The woman - the witch had lustrous reddish-maroon hair that curled about her shoulders and lovely golden-brown eyes. Her lips were a shade of bright red that stood out brilliantly against her sepia-toned skin. She wore a thigh-length purple-ish dress that hugged the ample curves of her bosom and hips. Her legs were bare all the way down to the open-toed black stilettos. The one concession she had made for the weather was a thin lacy, gauzy black shawl over her shoulders. Long dangling earrings, a ruby necklace, and odd sorts of silver bracelets wrapped around her wrist all the way up the back of her hand. She was every bit as beautiful and majestic as Annie had imagined a good witch to be.

"It's all right, love." the witch said sweetly. "My name is Ileana Frost. I'm from Hogwarts."

"That's what _he_ said too." Annie retorted. But she also noticed that she wasn't trembling quite so badly anymore and some of the chill in her fingertips was fading. She felt... safe. Safe around a stranger; that was new.

Ms. Frost smiled, a gracious and almost doting thing. "Precious little darling. The difference between myself and Mr. Mietius is that I'm not lying." she said assuringly. Her voice alone radiated more warmth and kindness than seemed possible. "It's true that he _-_ \- well, he _was_ the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts _-_ \- I don't imagine they'll let him back after this. But the way he went about his duties..." She made a soft tutting noise.

"He said _-_ \- He said they had trouble finding me." Annie said, eyes darting around as though she expected him to reappear. "Because I hadn't done any real magic."

"Real magic?" Ms. Frost repeated incredulously. "A bit of light? Making things move about?" she inquired, getting nods both time. "Oh darling." She touched Annie's hair lightly. "That _is_ real magic."

"Really?"

"It came from a real witch, so it couldn't be anything else."

A tight little knot of _something_ that had been sitting in Annie's chest started to uncoil. Relief trickled into her veins.

"Then why'd he say all that?" she asked.

"Because he's a terrible little man with terrible little ideas who should not have been permitted anywhere near a child." Ms. Frost said, stroking the girl's hair tenderly. Annie wasn't quite sure when the woman had gotten close enough to do that, but maybe it didn't matter.

"But enough of that! It's rather chilly out here. Perhaps a cup of tea. I know a lovely little place near the Seven Dials." she suggested.

"I was in a tea shop. Up in Spitalfields." Annie said. She gasped. "My things! They're still there! I can't lose a library book!"

"We'll collect your things, darling." Ms. Frost assured her. She stood up smoothly and extended a hand, with long elegant fingers. "And I'll tell you everything you need to know about Hogwarts and this grand new world you belong to."

 _Belong_. It was such a nice word, Annie mused, taking the woman's hand to stand up. Her skin was silken soft.

"What about Mum?" she asked, anxious again. "I _-_ \- I don't think she'll take it so well if we've got tell her I'm going off to a magic school. Mum's not really all- _there_. In the head. I don't even know if she'll understand it."

Her mum got free drinks at the pub, among other things, so she didn't always come home sober and sensible.

Ms. Frost made a thoughtful face for a moment. "Perhaps we can say something a scholarship and a wonderful opportunity, yes? She'll understand that. She'll be so happy that her daughter was accepted into a marvelous school."

Annie thought about that. It wouldn't be lying, technically. She would be going away to a very nice school and she would have far more opportunities for a successful future than her poor mum could give her with that titty shack dancing waitress job. Her mum would certainly understand that.

"Okay." she said.

"We'll talk it out over tea." Ms. Frost said, wiggling her fingers, inviting Annie to take her hand. "Now why don't you show me where that tea shop up in Spitalfields is and we'll get your things, yes?"

With a small smile, Annie took the woman's hand and allowed herself to be led out of the dingy alleyway. If she had looked back, she might have seen that Tower Bridge had a brand-new addition to it, however temporary. And it might have made her worried.

From a hangman's noose tied to the underside of the upper walkway, Professor Mietius's corpse swayed above the traffic.

* * *

-0-

I hope that wasn't too painful.

Annie and Ms. Frost up there are both relatively new OCs of mine. They're transplants from an original story that I'm still world-building for. I needed to fill out the ranks of staff and students alike and I'd already plumbed the depths of my Throwaway OC list, so I figured _why not_. There's a few of them in here. I grabbed the ones I was having the most trouble sorting out, personality-wise. If I'm going to stumble on their characterizations, I'd rather do it here than on something I want to get legit published one day.

It didn't quite make it into this chapter, but Ms. Frost does have a staff position at Hogwarts. Again, we're torching canon here and there. I expanded the staff roster of Hogwarts to include positions like hall monitors and common room monitors and other non-teaching positions that are mostly dedicated to keeping the students from blowing the roof off. I always figured the Marauder Era had a larger student body than Harry's day, so that would necessitate a significantly more robust staff in order to keep the student-to-teacher ratio within an acceptable range. If you really count, Harry's day appears to have no more than 20 adults running around Hogwarts at any given time. It get worse if you take JKR's assertion that Hogwarts has 1000 students during Harry's day (if you assume 40 per year is the average, it's really closer to 300).

Just remember going forward: There's a point to which I'll completely disregard anything JKR has stated since finishing the series and this can include any revisions made in re-printed editions of the books because I own the 1st edition Scholastic print, American release. As in, my copy of GoF has the James-Lily Who Died First mix-up.


	7. Riddle Me This

As I update at 2:30 in the morning

* * *

Chapter Seven: Riddle Me This

The office for the minister of the Department of Magical Education was quite large, which was rather considered a break from tradition. Previously, the office had been rought the size of a coat closet and tucked away in a corner as though it was ashamed to be seen. The position had never been a very prestigious one, nor was it sought after. It had been a tedious one, rather. The director of the Department of Magical Education was expected to make any final decisions on the things discussed by the Board of Governors for Hogwarts, the Council for the Royal College of Sorcery, and the Committees for the four primary schools (the existence of which were now spinning in limbo as they no longer had schools to manage). This involved a lot of reading and deliberating and reviewing and negotiating and reconsidering, as necessary. This had always been thought of as difficult, for the Board, the Council, and the Committee had been very firm and insistent that they get their way and wouldn't hear a word of it otherwise.

Then Tom Riddle had swept in out of nowhere, shaking the February snow from his cloak, and talked Director Sydney Mollaun right into a resignation. By April, Riddle had been installed as the new minister of the department. By July, he'd had the governing bodies of the schools all but cowering in front him.

The large new office was something that he felt he had rightfully won, by bringing the governing bodies of the schools under relative control and having them bow to the higher authority that he represented. And, without a doubt, Riddle had hardened and strengthened the department in a way that none of its previous ministers had managed. He had transformed the once-monotonous position into something marvelous

So no one argued with the office.

It was a lovely office too. It featured quite a lot of dark-stained hardwood and chairs upholstered in red leather or gilt. The area rug was faded a bit from age and a tad worn down from the years of being trod on, but it went along well with the slightly rustic theme. There was a handsome desk of mahogany and brass ink-pots (Riddle still preferred feather quills, rather than fountain pens). The curtans were a somber dusky gray with silver threading and they had been pulled over the windows. A blue-ish fire burned low under the flue and the chandelier gave off a quality of light known as "cozy". It very much seemed like the kind of place where "the boys" would gather after work for a drink and a smoke among fine company. And if Dumbledore wasn't mistaken, that was almost precisely what was happening.

Riddle was the host, of course, and he had offered his guests a dram of finely-aged scotch and strong-smelling smokeweed to stuff in their pipes. Dumbledore had accepted only the scotch and he sipped at it courteously rather than taking generous swallows. The other two were already on their second drams. Spots of high color had formed on their cheeks.

The other two guests in question were Jarren Cambria, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot (Dumbledore was only the Supreme Mugwump, a neutral arbitrator whose job was to make sure no one's bias was clouding their judgement). Cambria was Lesser Nobility and his family had been involved in the court system one way or another for decades. He had dark brown hair starting to turn gray at his temples and behind his ears, fair skin, and hazel eyes. He was of average height _-_ \- a little under six-foot _-_ \- and average weight, most of which seemed to be packed into his shoulders.

The other was the Head Auror Clifton Moon. He had curly platinum blonde hair that made him look sweet and charming, pale skin, and blue eyes. He was quite muscular, as he engaged in Muggle boxing after-hours. There were mixed feelings about this in his social circle; some considered this uncouth and beneath him, while the younger of the Greater Noble families found it strangely delightful that he could give any old chap the what-for with just his fists. It gave him a slight advantage over the criminals he brought down. His fists were his secret weapons and a good jab to the nose always startled the ne'er-do-wells.

Moon stuck the tip of his wand into the bell of his pipe and puffed until the leaves caught and began to smolder. He sucked in a deep breath of smoke and exhaled with a loud, satisfied noise.

"Ah, Bailor Carrow's _finest_ crop, if I'm not mistaken." he said appreciatively, coughing a little. "Such a wonderful earthy flavor. I don't know how he manages."

"Well, he doesn't." Cambria pointed out. "Did you know his wife grows it?"

"Oh my goodness, really?"

"Yes, she's the green thumb in the family. Treats them with a growth potion, I hear."

"That's practically _cheating_."

"Keeps them alive all year 'round. I wouldn't be complaining if I were you. If Lady Carrow hadn't taken up the gardening, we would have run out of Bailor's finest crop _years_ ago. He was never much for plant husbandry, as I've heard." Cambria said patiently. "But it's quite expensive. Mr. Riddle, I don't believe this position of yours pays you quite enough to afford such tobacco on a regular basis."

Riddle smiled, thin and satisfied. "His brother Erasmus and I were in Slytherin together. He was only a year below me." he explained. "A few favors to a good friend of the family are hardly outside the norm."

"Ah, sometimes I forget how young you are, Mr. Riddle." Cambria commented. "Now perhaps to business? I know you didn't bring us here just to sample the fruits of your social connections."

The Chief Warlock laughed. His cheeks were quite pink. He had been enjoying the fruits of Riddle's social connections, to say the least.

"Well, I was taught that no matter the content of the meeting, a good host must always provide for his guests." Riddle pointed out. "And, as my father would often tell me, a fine vintage goes a long way to soothing a man's worries."

The other two men laughed in understanding and Dumbledore smiled, but only to cover up the twinge of worry that those words had invoked. Riddle's parentage was ultimately a secret to those who didn't know him well enough. His mother the witch, none other than Merope Gaunt, one of the last descendants of Salazar Slytherin. A connection that Riddle was proud to flaunt, even for as little as he thought of the woman who had borne him into this world. The details were not important to him; just that he had a direct blood-connection to one of the Hogwarts Founders.

But young Tom Riddle had never actually known his father and they may never have spoken properly. If Riddle Senior had ever had words with his son, they may have started and ended with _"Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?"_

His late father, Thomas Riddle Senior, was a Muggle and that was a deep shame for the younger Riddle. For a young man who prided himself so strongly on his magical heritage.

So young Riddle had spun a false-hood about his father, placing the man in a very small and very unknown Newblood family. He spoke as though every branch of the family tree had Squibbed out and that he was the lone survivor, alternately blessed and cursed with the task of trying to make something of his beleaguered family name.

But it also established Riddle as a full member of magical society, with two magical parents _-_ \- rather than the halfblood he really was. And in a society still hung up on the purity of one's magical blood, this was, if nothing else, a wise move. It made him appear more legitimate in the eyes of the stodgy old men in charge of the government. Made him into someone worth listening to.

"And now that I have set your minds and bodies at ease," Riddle began, with the barest flicker of his eyes over to Dumbledore, as though he suspected the headmaster wasn't truly at ease. "I want to be sure that there are no loose ends left dangling from the other day."

"Loose ends? Merlin, did you think we've leave the poor man hanging?" Moon inquired, chuckling a little at his own joke. "No, no, my boys got him right off the bridge lickety-split! It would have been just rude to leave him up there."

"And the child who was involved?" Riddle inquired, passingly concerned. "Miss... I'm afraid I didn't quite catch the name."

"Joanna Jones. One of our Muggleborns. Or so. There's no father on record." Dumbledore replied. "She was registered by the Quill about two years ago, but has since failed to demonstrate any appreciable use of magic. Which is quite all right. Hogwarts has done with less in the past. But I believe the late Professor Mietius was in the mind to take matters into his own hands."

"It is difficult to gauge what might go through the mind of a dead man." Riddle said. "Thank Merlin for Dame Blackwood's timely intervention, or else we might have lost another of our students. We've had to bury too many of them as it is."

"Hear, hear!" Moon and Cambria thrust their glasses into the air and cheered raucously.

"Indeed. This has not a most auspicious year." Dumbledore agreed. "Additionally, gentlemen, it Lady Frost now."

"Frost?" Cambria sputtered over a mouthful of fine Scotch, struggling not to spew any. "She's married now? To whom? Not your Assistant Headmaster! Not that humorless goat Antonio!"

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled. "That humorless goat Antonio." he confirmed. "They married in a private ceremony over the winter. It surprised us all, quite frankly. I wasn't aware they'd been seeing each other, let alone progressed to marriage in just three years."

"Convey my congratulations." Riddle said. He looked at Moon. "The girl will not be brought up on any formal charges, I hope?"

"Goodness gracious no!" Moon cried, appalled that it was being suggested. "She's just a child, and a girl at that! I could hardly consider doing more than a gentle slap on the wrist! Good god man! She was in fear for her life! That sort of thing rather inspires defensive behavior, wouldn't you say?"

"Violent behavior for a girl, though." Cambria commented.

Moon nodded."Oh yes, I know my darling Alexandra would _never_ behave in such a dreadful manner."

"Then I believe you would find it alarming what young witches might do if the mood grips them." Dumbledore said calmly. He was never not going to be surprised, however, at how disconnected many fathers seemed to be from their daughters. "Besides Clifton, weren't you just saying that Miss Jones was in fear for her life?"

"Well... _yes_ , but she could have done things a tad more... _politely._ " the Head Auror muttered.

"Politely? You're suggesting she oughta have batted her eyelashes and _politely_ asked Professor Mietius to return her to the ground safely?" Dumbledore inquired, bewildered. "She was two hundred feet above the Thames with a man whom, according to Lady Frost, was fully intending to _drop_ her from as high up as possible to see if she could save herself. She was scared for her life. When one is acting in self-defense, there isn't much call to be polite."

Moon looked away and puffed almost indignantly on his pipe.

Forget disconnected, perhaps "wholly out of touch" was a better description for the fathers of today. It was a product of the society; Dumbledore knew that keenly. Daughters were all very well and good to have, but it was the _sons_ who mattered the most. Much of the Wizarding World still ran hard and fast on _primogeniture_ and the law required that a son be the one to inherit the fortune and titles. Daughters were only there for someone else's son to marry.

"I'm sure Miss Jones is largely a product of her environment," Riddle started, pouring himself another measure of scotch. "But I don't think a single one of us should complain that a young witch defended herself. It is _despicable_ that any wizard would attack a child. There are no _best intentions_ when it comes to a child's safety. You must put your all into it. Nothing else will suffice. I will never be cavalier with my children's safety. Emyrs and Amarande are quite entitled to respond in kind if they are being threatened."

Cambria nodded as though this was sagely spoken advice. "Well said, Thomas." His eyes were closed briefly, so he didn't see the displeasure that flickered across Riddle's face. "The Muggles have concluded on their own that Professor Mietius committed suicide. I see no reason to dissuade them of this notion."

"Did he have family?" Riddle asked.

"No, an only child. His mother and father were both involved in the war in Europe. Official military records lose track of them some time around the Battle of the Bulge." Cambria replied. "I believe we can release an appropriate obituary to that tune."

"A tasteful obituary." Moon nodded.

"I suppose Leo Mietius's untimely departure from life _is_ for the best." Dumbledore said, thought reluctant to state it. "He was quite willing to endanger a student's life and that is not the sort of person I would have at Hogwarts."

"Quite right, Albus." Riddle agreed. "The safety of the children _must_ come first. We have lost too many of them in the last year alone."

There was a moment of silence.

"Also, my apologies Albus. The background check came in just a little too late." Riddle added. "It would seem the late professor has spent some of his free time consorting with the Templars of Avangour. An acquaintance of mine spotted Mr. Mietius at the Midnight Blue just the other week, dining with Mihalis Palladino. I should have suspected something then."

Moon and Cambria made loud razzing noises and pulled faces they wouldn't have made sober, sloshing their glasses around. But Dumbledore just "hmm..." thoughtfully. The Templars of Avangour were an anti-Muggleborn organization that loudly protested the inclusion of Muggleborns (and sometimes new halfbloods) in the magical world. This wasn't anything new. There had been many such groups over their long history, both before and after the Seclusion. Dumbledore rather suspected the Templars were simply the newest edition of the Knights of Walpurgis, who had financially supported Grindelwald's uprising. "Avangour" was just an alternate spelling for the name of Saint Walpurga.

By and large, the Templars of Avangour were not dangerous. Their activities were limited to a lot of grandstanding speeches, pamphlets being flogged along the Alleys, and long letters that were sometimes published in the _Daily Prophet_. Mihalis Palladino was the most outspoken member of the group's vocal minority, to the point that he frequently had to claim that he wasn't the leader.

"It does leave Hogwarts in something of a lurch, however." Dumbledore commented, breaking away from his thoughts. He would ruminate over it later. "We find ourselves in need of _another_ Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and before the term has even started!"

"Blimey, must be a new record." Cambria commented. "You sure the post isn't cursed?"

"I've quite gone past the point of thinking it is. I believe it now." Dumbledore nodded. He took another sip of scotch.

The students chattered that the position was cursed and with good reason. There was no other explanation for going through twelve teachers in twelve years. At least four of them had died on the job. The other eight had either had something rather horrible happen to them or they had left at the end of the year for their health. And now Professor Mietius had gone and died with just three weeks to go before the start of term!

Lucky number thirteen.

 _I haven't kept a single Defense Against the Dark Arts professor on for longer than a year since I refused the post to you._ Dumbledore thought, glancing thoughtfully in Riddle's direction.

"Let's not worry too hard, Albus." Riddle advised. "I believe you did have several potential candidates aside from Mietius." He raised his hand and flicked it in the direction of his desk. Several folders extracted themselves from a drawer and flew over into his lap. "Yes, here they are. Geoffrey Dodge, Igor Ristevski _-_ -"

"Igor?!" Cambria interrupted, guffawing.

Dumbledore nodded. "Igor. And River MacHoney. She's my second choice." he told Riddle.

"She's a witch." Riddle commented, frowning a little.

"So is half the faculty and no one has complained about their teaching methods." Dumbledore pointed out patiently. "Mr. Dodge is from the States and I am not sure how the students _-_ \- especially the Noble-born _-_ \- would take to having an American teach them. Mr. Ristevki did not test well with the staff; they found him a tad too overbearing. Ms. MacHoney is a fully qualified teacher capable of getting along with the students and the staff with little friction. Considering that we will all be stuck in the castle for ten months out of the year, it is in everyone's best interest that we don't rub each other the wrong way, wouldn't you agree?"

Riddle's expression turned slightly unhappy, but he sighed and went: "Very well. I suppose you're in the position to know best." and then handed Dumbledore the witch's file.

"Excellent. I'll have a letter posted to her by Saturday." Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling.

He didn't expect to hear back from until late next week or the week after, depending on how long it took for the post to find her. Ms. MacHoney had hadn't a set address in years. She had been roaming the African continent for ages now.

After fifteen minutes in which Cambria and Moon finished off their scotch, they stood up and bade Riddle a spirited farewell. A proposition for a proper night with the boys was put forward and Riddle made some half-hearted agreements towards the idea. The men were just inebriated enough that they didn't notice his lackluster enthusiasm or indeed any assertion of commitment. Dumbledore got up as well.

"Thank you Tom, for the scotch." he said. "I should be on my way back home _-_ -"

"Albus, if you don't mind, I was hoping for another five minutes of your time." Riddle started hastily, waving him back into the seat. "I'd like to have a quick word. About... this coming school year."

He sounded distantly worried and the pinch in his brow reflected it, so Dumbledore sank back into the gilt-upholstered chair.

"What's on your mind, Tom?" he asked.

For a moment, Riddle seemed uncharacteristically unsure of himself. He briefly wrung his hands and sat down in the adjacent chair with the kind of abruptness that suggested he had been only half sure of its position.

"It's with regards to my daughter, Amarande." he began, tentatively, like he was cautious about being judged. "She will be at Hogwarts this year, as you know."

"Indeed, I was delighted to see her name on the list of the incoming first-years." Dumbledore said, smiling. Delighted, and a little frightened as well. "Amarande... That's a Greek name, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's a variant of 'Amaranthe'." Riddle nodded. He rubbed his hands together. "I daresay I'm having some mixed feelings about seeing her off on the Hogwarts Express for the first time."

Dumbledore nodded sympathetically. "I find that many parents, single or otherwise, are often not keen to let their children go so far even at the formidable age of eleven. It's perfectly ordinary. You're excited to see your beloved daughter receive her wand and start her training and take her first steps into the wider world. But at the same time, you're not quite ready to let her out of your sight."

"That sounds about right." Riddle conceded, rubbing his hands together some more. "After the events of this past year, I have been more cautious with Amarande's safety than before _-_ \- a-and yes, Albus, I know that Hogwarts is among the safest institutions in our world." he added quickly, as to assure the headmaster that he did not doubt the strength and integrity of Hogwarts's defenses. "But Redford was considered such too."

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded. "But the students were taken whilst they were out camping. Not from the building itself." he pointed out. He would have leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on the younger wizard's tightly clasped hands if he thought for a second Riddle would have let him. "Tom, you know just as well as I do that a team of inspectors crawled all over the castle's defenses every day for three months. Inspectors that _you_ sent up there. And you were pleased with their final report. You _know_ there is nothing to worry about."

"I know." Riddle said soflty. "But it's been a small worry that I haven't been able to shake. I hope that doesn't make me sound weak."

"Of course it doesn't." Dumbledore assured him. "Amarande is your daughter and the love you have for her is... _astonishing_."

The only good word for it that didn't sound insulting. The older wizard didn't know what _kind_ of love existed between the unlikely father and even more unlikely daughter, but it probably wasn't the standard filial affection.

He wasn't sure Riddle was entirely capable of that.

"And your devotion to the safety of the students of Hogwarts is commendable. I don't think this department has ever had a harder working or more thoroughly dedicated leader." Dumbledore praised.

"Ah, you flatter me, Albus."

"No, no. It's very true. The arguments I used to have with Mr. Mollaun over funding and upgrades and course approvals... He could give me the run-around for _hours_! It wasn't as though we had a paltry budget. I think he rather had a yearning for his university days, however. But _you_ , Thomas Marvolo Riddle. You understand what Hogwarts needs. What the students need. And you work tirelessly to ensure that we get it. I have no idea how to thank you. Mere words just won't do it."

Riddle glowed under the praise, as he always did when his brilliance was acknowledged. Even better that it was coming from his former Transfiguration teacher, who had since become the headmaster of the very school he held so dear in his heart.

"Perhaps... You could do me the favor of checking in on my daughter every now and again." Riddle suggested, a little tentatively. "I am worried what things will be like for her at Hogwarts. If she will fit in with the rest of her year. I confess that I did keep her rather close to home for much of her early life. She's not used to strangers and she's not been very good at making friends. I taught her how to be forceful and strong-minded, but it seems to have resulted in her being very dominating in social situations. It has frightened her peers."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm sure that the older Slytherins will take to the task of cutting her down to size." he said. It happened in every House; the oldest students dressed down the first-years they felt were too big for their britches. "Nevertheless, I will make certain she knows that she can talk to any of the professors if she begins to feel overwhelmed."

"Are you certain? She is a very unusual child." Riddle added hastily. "I worry that she'll be bullied by the other girls. Especially the Noble-born. I can't always provide her with the finest clothes and accessories, as much as I want to _-_ -"

"Tom," Dumbledore started soothingly. "Very rarely do the Noble-born take more than a passing interest in teasing their Halfblood and Muggleborn compatriots. Quite the contrary, the girls embrace the differences, more often than not. Hogwarts has a curious way of wiping out those dividing lines. Besides, every first year feels a little like the odd duck out. It gives the first-years something to bond over. Hogwarts is such a new environment for all of them and it takes time for them to adjust. Amarande's situation will hardly be unique. She may have some ups and downs in the first couple of weeks, but I imagine that she has your stunning resilience and fortitude. I think she will be quite capable of taking Hogwarts by storm."

"Quite." Riddle agreed, smiling proudly.

 _It's what I'm afraid of_. Dumbledore thought. _I do hope Amarande can learn when to back down or the other students just might eat her alive._

He kept that thought quite throughly to himself, though. Riddle obviously thought highly of his daughter, doted on her, spoiled her a little in the way single parents tended to. He wanted to be assured that Amarande would receive from her peers the respect and deference he felt that she deserved.

Riddle was calling his daughter forceful and strong-minded, but Dumbledore couldn't help but think that young Amarande wasn't used to having anyone saying 'no' to her. She dominated social situations, used to being the center of attention.

It wouldn't work at Hogwarts. Especially not in Slytherin House, who tended to have a more demure, down-to-earth approach that was second only to Hufflepuff. They valued patience and humility as much as they valued tenacity and ambition. They would not take kindly to the tall poppy that was Amarande Riddle. She _would_ be bullied, that much was inevitable. Bullied just enough to teach her some worthwhile humility, and then some enterprising older student would take her aside and help re-shape her into the form that Slytherin House deemed 'proper' for every one of its graduates.

The uncouth and rough who went into Slytherin came out refined and polished like crystals. Given Riddle's personal preferences, Dumbledore wouldn't be surprised if the man was delighted by his daughter's inevitable transformation.

"Is that all, Tom?" the headmaster inquired, eager to be on his way.

"Not quite. I was wondering if you'd had the chance to review Proposition Six-Fifty-Eight?" Riddle wondered. "It's going in front of the Caucus next month, for the first round of deliberation."

"Proposition Six-Fifty-Eight..." Dumbledore thought for a moment, but it didn't ring any bells. "No, I don't believe I've even heard of that one."

"Well, it hasn't been around long enough to really gain national attention." Riddle admitted, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm merely curious. The proposition is mine; I drafted it. With some assistance from the sub-committees below me. I am hoping to grant the Department of Magical Education a little more control over the hiring and termination of Hogwarts staff."

"I see." Dumbledore said. The Board of Govenors was mostly responsible for that, at the present time. Currently comprised of late-middle-aged wizards who hadn't been to school in literal decades. He could understand why Riddle might want to convert some of the control over to the department. "If this proposition passes the Caucus, what would that mean for Hogwarts?"

"Why, it means that I could have you removed from the position of Hogwarts headmaster if I wanted to." Riddle explained, smiling strangely. It vanished and he chuckled disarmingly. "Not that I would! Albus, I do believe you are the best headmaster Hogwarts has had in a century! It would be a _crime_ to replace you! I'd likely lose my job over it!

"But... There may come a time when the Hogwarts headmaster will fail to live up to the standards of integrity you have set, and thus needs to be removed for the good of the school. Proposition Six-Fifty-Eight will expedite the process by bypassing the Board of Governors completely." the younger wizard went on. "Naturally, there would still be an investigation into a headmaster's misdeeds, but we wouldn't be arguing in circles with a board of stodgy old men clinging to values a century out of date. The offending headmaster would be removed from the school in a matter of weeks, not months. Or years."

A slight chill went down Dumbledore's spine. "You have this quite thoroughly sorted, Tom." he said.

"You know me, Albus." Riddle smiled that strange smile again, like his teeth had secrets. "I only have at heart the best for the students of Hogwarts, present and future."

"A fact I am eternally grateful for." Dumbledore was able to stand up uncontested. "Thank you, Tom, for the lovely time. I will certainly have a peek at Proposition Six-Fifty-Eight before it goes to the bench. If I may, I would like to extend to you an invitation to come up to Hogwarts some time after the school year starts."

Riddle's dark eyes lit up gleefully. "I would just _love_ to see the castle again. It must have changed a great deal in the last eleven years. The opening game of the Quidditch season, perhaps?"

"Indeed. That should be the first weekend in November."

"I will see you then, Albus. Ta-ta for now."

Dumbledore departed, a chill racking his spine. Just for the briefest of seconds there, he'd sworn that Riddle's eyes had turned blood-red.

* * *

Up the coast of Scotland, far to the north were the wind was a constant howling companion and the cold sea water threw itself against rocky cliffs, Tom Riddle had made his home.

He had picked a small rocky islet off the coast of the Outer Hebrides, where the peoples of centuries past had constructed a castle-fort to guard their claim to the land. The ancient structure had crumbled due to the onslaught of time, but with the right application of magic, it had been rebuilt.

It had taken two years and a team of dozens working nearly round the clock, but the ruins were now a proud stately castle once more and the rocky little islet had been concealed from the eyes of the Muggles. The area was remote, a little barren, and the many of the islands to the south and east were uninhabited. They had been designated as wildlife refuges and that severely cut down on the likelihood that any dumb Muggle would stumble up to the cliffs by accident.

Not that Riddle had taken the chance. He had layered his little islet in every anti-Muggle ward known to wizard-kind and there were a few he suspected that he had accidentally made up in the process. All of the wards were anchored at the cardinal points with polished cubic-cut diamonds wider than his hand was long. He had spared no expense on the protections. This was his home, his fortress, and he had an image to protect.

The night air was chilly and damp with sea spray when Riddle arrived at the only Apparition point on the islet. Well, _below_ the islet, technically. The narrow northern side of the islet featured a natural stone arch, under which he had had fashioned a stone dock to be the only safe Apparition point. It wasn't a wide dock; two people abreast was a little bit of a squeeze and a third person would fall right off into the water.

The clap of displaced air was barely audible over the mournful howl of the wind. The arch was long enough to almost be a cave and it magnified the sound of the wind until the poetic might liken it to the wailing of lost souls.

Riddle stepped off the dock and over to a featureless stone wall. He placed his hand against it and pushed gently. At once, the outline of a door formed and then it split from the wall and swung inwards. There was a wide staircase hewn from the same gray stone as the rest of the islet. Sconces of white helite were mounted on the walls; they flickered to life as he approached them and flickered out again when he was past them.

The stairs took him right up to the large entryway, which had a tiled floor, a vaulted cathedral-like ceiling, an elegant double-staircase, and several crystal chandeliers that were brightly lit before he even arrived. If his guests thought it had a passing resemblance to Hogwarts, they never commented on it.

Intricate and delicate tapestries hung from the walls. The runner carpet on the stairs was a rich green inlaid with strands of silver that, if one looked closely, started to form snake patterns around the fourth step.

Two house-elves promptly appeared in the foyer, though Riddle only took enough notice of them so he didn't kick one by accident. He undid the clasps of his cloak and dropped it carelessly onto the first elf, while the second dedicated itself to the task of unbuckling the wizard's boots. The first elf whisked the cloak and then came back with a pair of house slippers for its master. Riddle stepped out of his boots and into the slippers, then headed up the stairs to the living areas.

After nine years of this, the house-elves had the evening routine down to an exact science. Riddle headed for the dining room where a light repast awaited him; he always got off work feeling peckish. Flames burned in the dining's room fireplace because the wind howled cold and damp no matter the time of year. Beside the light meal, there was always the day's correspondence from his trusted associates; the letters that could not be sent to his office due to their delicate contents. And sometimes but not always, the dining room was occupied by Sophia Chisholm, his children's governess.

"Sir Riddle, good evening." Ms. Chisholm said, tipping her head slightly. "I have no intention of delaying your evening meal, but your daughter had instructed me to inform you that she demands your presence as immediately as possible."

The governess said this in a nettled tone that suggested she did not think this was appropriate behavior for a refined young witch. At least in her experience, as a child of Lesser Nobility, young witches were obliged to sit down and shut up when told. Anything else was the height of rudeness.

"Amarande is still awake? It's a quarter to eleven. I expected her to be asleep more than an hour ago." Riddle commented.

"She does not like the new bedtime you imposed." Ms. Chisholm informed him. "Shall I fetch her down for you?"

"Yes, bring her." Riddle waved a hand. "I trust, however, that Emrys is asleep?"

"Naturally."

Ms. Chisholm left the dining room with a sort of high-chinned elegance that befit a witch of her stature and Riddle watched her leave with a vague sort of contempt. Ms. Chisholm respected him in the way that anyone respected their employers, but that wasn't enough. She didn't pay enough due respect to his station and his position in the government.

Even unmarried and a governess (though a perfectly respectable occupation for a witch), Ms. Chisholm out-ranked him socially simply because she had been born into a higher caste.

Children followed the father. Riddle's mother might have been part of the ill-fated Gaunt family and Old Nobility in their own right, but his fabricated family tree placed a father no higher than the Newblood caste. He was treated accordingly.

There were two ways to correct that. The first was if he sorted out whatever inheritance was left over from the Gaunt family (surely none of the titles had been stripped). As the only adult heir and undisputed in that regard, Riddle was perfectly in his rights to claim whatever the Gaunts had left behind. It was something he planned to do one day, if just to bolster his own social standing. Though the process of doing so would be tedious, given how muddled the Gaunt line had become and how much time he would need just to prove the blood connection.

The second was if he _forced_ Ms. Chisholm to acknowledge that she was so far below him that she was little more than a speck of dust on his boot.

But he didn't want to do that; not at least until Emrys had started at Hogwarts as well. Good governesses were so hard to find these days and the Chisholms were among the last families to still train their daughters for the job.

Riddle sat down at the head of the table and opened the first piece of correspondance before he started to eat. He only got a few bites in and just past the usual pleasantries when he heard a pair of feet come sprinting along the corridor towards the dining room.

"Daddy!" Amarande burst into the room, her long hair flying out behind her, the doors banging into the walls. "Daddy! You will not believe what that cow you've-!"

"Amarande!" Riddle snapped harshly.

The girl skidded to a halt at the other end of the table with a confused expression.

"Leave the room and close the doors behind you." Riddle instructed, without looking up. "Once you have done that, count to five and then knock. You will come in only when I say you can."

Amarande blinked. "What?"

"Do as I say." Riddle ordered. "Only then will I address your grievances."

"But Daddy-!"

"Hush daughter. You sound like a house-fly with that whining."

Amarande's cheeks flushed pink almost instantly and she puffed up indignantly like she wanted to tell her father off for insulting her. But she wouldn't argue with the only authority figure in her life that she acknowledged, so she turned around and left the dining room, tugging the doors closed in the process. Riddle started to count and it had only reached three when his daughter rapped on the doors.

Well, at least she had waited.

"Come in, Amarande." he invited.

Amarande flounced back in with a piqued temper. She was dressed in her night things; the dressing gown only half-tied around her waist to expose the satiny nightgown. She appeared to have lost a slipper somewhere between her bedroom and the dining room, and she kicked off the other one on her approach. Her black hair was combed and conditioned and loosely braided for bed so it wouldn't tangle overnight.

She marched up to the table and said: "Daddy, the governess put me to bed at _nine o'clock_. Nine o'clock! I haven't gone to bed that early since I was a baby! Where does _she_ get off making me go to bed so early?!"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Riddle questioned, canting an eyebrow.

Amarande didn't roll her eyes, but it was a close thing. "Welcome home, Daddy." she said, then leaned in to peck him lightly on the cheek.

"Very good." Riddle praised. "Now my dear daughter, what are you doing out of bed at this hour?"

"It's only eleven." Amarande pointed out, crossing her arms. "I'm not tired. But the cow said I _had_ to go to bed."

"Ms. Chisholm was acting under my instructions, beloved." Riddle informed her. "And do not call your governess a cow. The Chisholm family is Lesser Nobility and we are still in a place where we must show them respect. In any case, you will start at Hogwarts in less than three weeks-"

"I know that _-_ -"

"And four in the morning will simply cease to be an acceptable time to finally go to bed." Riddle finished, giving her a rather stern look. "Assuming the schedule has not changed drastically since my time, your first class will begin promptly at eight o'clock in the morning. In order to have enough to be time to be properly dressed and eat breakfast, you should expect to rise no later than six-thirty."

Amarande made an expression that suggested she would sooner throw herself out the window than voluntarily get up with the dawn. That sort of thing was nonsense; reserved for Muggles, Mudbloods, and her annoying little brother.

One of the fundemental differences between Riddle's seven-year old son and eleven-year old daughter was that Emrys went to bed at the posted bedtime and was up by five in the morning without fail, eager to get his day started. Most days, they were lucky to coax Amarande out of bed before noon.

"I don't like it." she declared.

"It's nothing I can change." Riddle said. "Your professors may let it pass one time, but one time only. I do not want to receive aggravated letters from your Head of House informing me that not only must you be physically removed from bed in order to not be late for class, but that you are only getting three hours of sleep and missing breakfast as a result. That will be unacceptable. Do you understand?"

Amarande scowled, but let out a grudging: "Yes Daddy."

"Therefore, from now on, you will be going to bed at nine-thirty. I am not permitting negotiation. This is to acclimate you to the schedule change gently before you don't have a choice." Riddle added pointedly. "Is that _also_ understood, Amarande?"

He reached out and cupped one of Amarande's cheeks with a long-fingered hand. No matter how many times he performed this, it still felt strange and wrong. But of the nine child-rearing books hidden in his private chambers, eight of them had extolled the importance of physical contact throughout the child's development from infant to adult.

Indeed, both Amarande and Emrys seemed to enjoy it, so they were getting something out of it.

Amarande tilted her head into the touch and smiled sweetly.

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I didn't know." she said earnestly. "I promise that I will go to bed at the new time."

"And you will stay there." Riddle added, knowing full well that sleep would not come to her immediately and she would be tempted to get out of bed. "And that you will also get up at the new time. Nine-thirty tomorrow and the day after. We'll ease it back by thirty minute increments every two days until you are getting up at six-thirty. Do not scowl, beloved daughter. Your face isn't suited for that."

The eleven-year old's expression smoothed out into something like mellow neutrality. Riddle took his hand away.

"There are things about Hogwarts you will not enjoy. The schedule will be one of them. I believe that will be a shared experience among your year-mates." he went on. "We must also address your behavior."

"My behavior? What's wrong with it?" Amarande asked, honestly confused.

"Word of how you comported yourself at the Delgados' luncheon found its way back to me." Riddle said, and he watched his daughter shrink a little in what looked like shame. "I am offended that you seemed unable to conduct yourself in a manner befitting that of Salazar Slytherin's eldest daughter."

Amarande shrank a little more under her father's withering disappointment. She was aware that her etiquette at the Delgado's luncheon had been sorely lacking. That her grace and poise compared to that of the Noble-born girls had made her look like a bumbling Mudblood, sub-human and lower than dirt.

"They weren't respecting me." she said sullenly, looking away.

"Enlighten me, dear daughter. What did you do to earn their respect?" Riddle asked. "How did you behave? Politely, like a proper young lady of society oughta? Or something a little more... Objectionable."

He already knew. Yessenia Delgado had complained to her father about Amarande's disgraceful composure and Lord Delgado, in turn, had relayed that to him. Amarande had carried herself off like a right little bitch, to directly quote Lord Delgado's daughter.

And that horrible impression just wouldn't do. There was a very good chance that Mistress Yessenia would be sharing a dorm with Amarande and Amarande's job, once at Hogwarts, would be to begin securing alliances with the influential heirs and daughters in her year. The Delgados were one of those families- Hell, all one hundred and ninety-three families registered as properly Noble families were important. There were only twenty-three of them in Amarande's year, but they all had their indespensible allies. As long as they were taken in by what the Riddle family had to offer, the matter of keeping them there was simple.

The key to a long-lasting dynasty was to start with a strong foundation of allies, all believing in and working towards a single common goal. Riddle himself had laid in the cornerstones, but Amarande and Emrys were crucial to the rest of the foundation.

"As much as you prefer to, you simply cannot bully your way into anyone's good graces. To come out of the gate wand blazing will only succeed in painting you as hostile and uncooperative. The ruby necklace I gifted to you was intended to assist you in that, but if you cannot even utilize that properly, I can take it away-"

"No!" Amarande clutched her chest, but the ruby pendant was tucked away in its box for the night, safe inside a drawer of her vanity desk. She looked alarmed at her own outburst and hastily cleared her throat. "I mean... Please don't take it away. I quite like the way it looks on me."

"Careful you don't become too reliant on it." Riddle advised her. After a second of thought, he reached over and took both of her hands in his own. His daughter's hands were small and pale, and they could only become dainty and delicate as she grew older.

"Remember." he went on, squeezing those small hands (not as quite as gently as he should have). "Your behavior, whatever it may be, reflects back on me and my image not just as a father, but a leader as well. Behave poorly, uncouthly, and people will think of me as an unsuited father and thusly as an unacceptable leader. How can I lead, they will wonder, if I cannot bring my own daughter to heel?

"But... As along as you play the part of the respectable, comely young lady who deserves a higher place in society, with demure charm and quiet dignity. Win them over with grace and poise and magnetic confidence, and you will work a spell on them the likes of which they could never fight off. They wouldn't want to."

"Yes Daddy." Amarande nodded in understanding, her dark eyes glinting a little in anticipation. She had known for years what her role in this would be, but somehow, hearing it be said now and with such passion so close to the start of term (at last!) was beginning to make it feel that much more real.

"You won't let me down, yes?" Riddle prompted.

"Never." Amarande assured him, smiling. "I was born for this, remember."

"I would never dare forget."

Amarande had gotten the best of both her parents. Appareance-wise, she resembled her mother with the fine-boned figure and high cheekbones that accentuated her face even at the androgynous age of eleven. Her hair was a sleek black that had become silken-soft thanks to liberal applications of hair tonics and she had grown it long, past her waist. She was one of those pale beauties who would turn heads with every step and hopefully she would grow in the other _assets_ her mother had been gifted with.

Either way, she would have the heirs flocking to her like flies to a honey trap.

Moths to a deadly flame.

Riddle's only real worry was that Amarande wouldn't be able to conform to Hogwarts's sense of uniformity in time to make any progress.

Adjusting to it had been easy for him, after the strictness of Mrs. Cole's orphanage. With thirty to forty children to manage daily and a dearth of staff, Mrs. Cole had lived and breathed discipline and rigid schedules that hadn't allowed anyone more than ten seconds to even _think_ about setting a toe out of line.

Hogwarts was much the same way, in the sense that there were so many students and the lot of them were puberty-aged and above, and all of them were on the brink of getting into the trouble. The teachers punished _en masse_ when they had to. To set an example in case anyone else thought about getting any cheeky ideas.

But Amarande hadn't been raised in an environment that had been as strict as the orphanage. She had been schooled by private tutors who had always ended up bending under her demands for breaks from lessons that lasted two hours or they would explain the lesson to her step by step by step rather than letting her try and reason it out for herself.

Hogwarts would be her first encounter with a proper academic setting. The professors there had too many students to deal with that they just couldn't devote much excess time to any single student, even to the ones who were having trouble.

Hogwarts would be a shock for her no matter how Riddle tried to prepare her for it.

"There are other things we will need to discuss before you head to Hogwarts on the twenty-sixth, but that can wait until a more suitable hour of daylight." Riddle told her.

"But we're going to Diagon Alley soon, right?" Amarande asked. "I don't want to go Saturday. The _Potters_ are escorting the Mudbloods there on Saturday. I don't want to go when the Alley is going to be crawling with them."

"Of course not. We will go on Friday afternoon. I've already cleared my schedule." Riddle released her hands. "Now go the bed. And don't let me catch you outside your room for anything less than a bloody nose."

"Yes Daddy." Amarande smiled that sweet, innocent smile of hers once more and pecked her father lightly on the cheek. Then she spun around and flounce-skipped out of the dining room, the loose braid of hair bouncing up and down her back.

Riddle smiled as he watched her leave, pleased with the way the last eleven years had turned out. It had been worth it, going through all the trouble forcing Amarande's mother to stay alive long enough to bear the child. The result was steadfastly loyal to him to the exclusion of all others.

His beautiful daughter.

She would die for him if he ordered it.

-0-

* * *

And that's one way to Voldemort's Daughter in the Marauder Era.

Like with Voldemort, it always bugged me how people handled the idea of his daughter. If it's not a straight-out "Volds can't get the sexy cuz he no luv", then they aim for making Miss Riddle a morally gray character. That works so much better in the Harry Potter years (but then they cheesecake the idea into a love triangle between Miss Riddle, Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy, with the latter two representing the "Dark" side and the "Light" side and her choice in boyfriends is used as a short-hand to resolve what oughta be a complicated moral conflict ugh ugh ugh i have Opinions about that). In the Marauder Era, it oughta be harder. Because Voldemort is alive and building his power base, his ideology is catching on, and frankly, any child raised by Tom Riddle isn't going to be morally gray. There really shouldn't be any ambiguity about it.


End file.
